


Ease The Dawn

by Inforapoundd



Series: Ease The Dawn [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Favourite tropes, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Kidnapping, Non-Canon Relationship, Past Abuse, Ransom, Romance, Slow Burn, Tension, Vikings, Violence, ivar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inforapoundd/pseuds/Inforapoundd
Summary: Princess Aethelswith, the sister to the newly crowned King Alfred is kidnapped by Vikings. The intent is to hold her as incentive during negations for land. Prince Ivar, the head of the Great Heathen Army is blindsided by the princess and fascinated by his reaction to her. This is the story of a young man and a young woman, enemies to the other, finding an uncertain, unfamiliar and unlikely friendship.“Slowly his hand released her right shoulder and she braced. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, waiting for a strike. A blow. That ubiquitous act of power over and hatred for another. At what age are young boys taught to diminish women through violence, she wondered?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.   
> I am on Tumblr @inforapound

The ride from the Humbery Monastery back to the castle in Wessex was a full day’s travel commencing at dawn. The midsummer heat was stifling within the confining walls of the carriage and the rattles of the wooden wheels, over uneven ground, agonizingly loud. Aethelswith, and her lady, rode in silence for what seemed like hours, already covering the possible topics of discussion early into their journey and having to shout to do so. As the day stretched on, they cast each other repulsed looks and rolling eyes as the crude horseman driving, repeatedly, cleared his throat and honked onto the ground. He would even stop to relieve himself off the side of the carriage, simultaneously, flatulating like a bore. He was a repulsive little man who obviously spent more time with horses than humans.

Her guard was slightly more civilized, in manners at least, addressing her, graciously, as Princess and keeping obediently to his orders. This was not necessarily for her regard but because she was the cherished sister of King Alfred and the wife, seemingly less cherished, of Lord Burgred.

Less than excited about the uncomfortable journey home, Aethelswith was pleased to be resurfacing to the world of the living. As God serving as any other royal Saxon, the weeks of prayer with the sisters of Humbery was enough to make her stark raving mad. The much-needed reprieve from her husband was the true driving force behind her trip to worship. 

Tipping her head back against the smooth fabric of the seat, she closed her eyes in an improbable attempt at sleep. Her lady, a girl of seventeen named Ardith, hummed a hymn, just loud enough to be heard over the constant clatter of their ride. A sharp holler from their driver ripped her from her rest just as the carriage lurched on its path, jolting both her and her lady against the open window. They braced themselves clinging to the wall of the carriage as it rumbled to a stop; a thick cloud of dust billowed inside causing them to hack and cough. Glancing between the open windows on either side, Aethelswith could not see the reason the driver had swerved so violently. A cold shiver ran down her back, and her mouth gaped when she heard the strange voices outside the wooden walls. She did not need to understand their words to know they were not simple bandits. The accounts of rape and pillaging, as well as the tribulations of her brother’s attempts at protecting their Kingdom, rang like chapel bells in her mind. These were Northmen.

A carriage carrying two young Saxon women, traveling under guard, would without question capture their dangerous attention. Aethelswith shot Ardith a stern look, bringing her finger to her mouth in an effort to quiet the young servant but the girl looked close to panic. Leaning forward, she sunk her hand deep into the woven bag carrying her tapestry materials and pulled out a thin-bladed dagger. Her eyes scanned the ornate handle with intricate gold vines and ruby flowers. The memory of receiving it as a gift from her grandfather, King Ecbert, at her coming of age ceremony flashed through her mind, as did her foolish adolescent thoughts. She used to wish, on more than one occasion, that she would have the opportunity, one day, to use it. She squeezed her eyes closed, her cheeks burning at her naivety as well as the realization that today was most likely the day.

A sharp whack jolted Aethelswith from her thoughts and Ardith flung herself across the carriage, clutching onto Aethelswith in a frenzy. There were no voices that she recognized as her guard or driver. Footsteps over dry dirt rounded the carriage causing both women’s eyes to widen. A rugged face appeared in the open window of the carriage door, his expression seemed pleased and curious, not as sinister as his intentions unquestionably were. This man’s features could not be mistaken for anything but Viking. His sandy flaxen hair was plated and pulled partially back away from his light green eyes which were narrowed under a heavily furrowed brow. He wore leather armour, crafted to appear like the skin of a dragon and he was covered in grime. Filthy, like a man who slept on the ground and bathed in dust.

Despite the humidity, goosebumps spread up Aethelswith’s arms and she tightened her hold around Ardith, narrowing her eyes back at the heathen. The dagger was still in her other hand, concealed, between her thigh and the bench seat. Cautiously, he poked his head through the open window, looking around the inside and breaking into a grin that Aethelswith could only describe as sly. The door was yanked open and he leaned his body forward lifting and resting a leather boot on the threshold. They were trapped. The Northman’s amused smile and squinted eyes shot back and forth between the terrified woman. Abruptly, he stepped back, bowing and dramatically motioning his arm as a footman servant would.

“Princess,” he said in a sarcastic, thick-accented voice.

They knew who she was! Her eyes shot wide and her breath hitched and she shook her head in confusion, her mind searching for an explanation.

The grimy man’s expression darkened, and he barked out words in his own language but they sat frozen. Clearly frustrated, he huffed and leaned through the open door extending his arm to grab Aethelswith’s knee. Without hesitating, she swung her dagger towards him, chopping it down onto his forearm slicing cleanly into his skin. Hissing, he lept back and grabbed his arm, his eyes wild with surprise, and shouted something indiscernible in his awkward language. Doing her best to steady the shaking in her limbs, Aethelswith raised the dagger again, directing it at him. Turning away, he yelled to someone outside the carriage and then slammed the door hard, leaving the ladies inside.

Shouting bounced between an uncertain number of men before the dirty hand belonging to the Northman, shot through the opening window, grabbing Aethelswith’s wrist. Squeezing tightly, she cried out in pain, as he yanked the knife free with his other hand.

Ardith’s screams were interrupted by the carriage door flying open. An older, giant of a man with long hair and a scraggly beard leaned in reaching past Aethelswith, clutching Ardith by the arm.

Effortlessly, he pulled her out of Aethelswith’s grasp, causing her to slam forwards onto her knees on the carriage floor as Ardith disappeared through the door, it slamming behind. Scrambling to the window Aethelswith peered out; her breath was ragged and her throat to dry to scream. The tall, older Northman, stood in front of two horses, holding Ardith’s tiny arm in one hand. As if she was a feather, he swung her up to sit on the chestnut horse, her dress flying up exposing her legs. Slapping the horse’s rump, it skittered forward, launching Ardith onto its neck. Gripping the horse tightly, it galloped down the trail, in the direction they had come.

The carriage dipped under the weight of someone climbing onto the driver’s bench. She could hear and feel the heavy hooves and sway of the horses being readied just as the carriage jolted forward into motion. Sitting board straight against the seat, she pressed her trembling hands to her chest, attempting to slow her breathing. A cold sensation spread up her back and over the top of her scalp. Biting the inside of her cheek, she realized just how dire her situation was. She was being kidnapped and they had been specifically looking for her. For ransom? Gold, she wondered? Where were they taking her? Her mind raced with questions. What would they do to her once there? Squeezing her eyes closed, she swallowed with difficulty at the images in her mind. Her guard and driver were obviously dead but as long as the carriage was moving, she was safe. 

“Woah,” called a gruff voice from up front as the carriage slowed to a stop.


	2. Chapter 2

In the shade of a canopy and upon a carved wooden chair, Ivar sat as a king would. With a horn full of mead, he was surrounded by members of his army, The Great Heathen Army. Careful not to scratch the skin of his forehead with his leather cuffed hands, he wiped away the beads of sweat forming from the heat of the English summer. The excitement for his plans of taking the King's sister distracting him, momentarily, from the sharp ache in his braced legs. He felt giddy; for once, in a mood for entertainment other than raiding and running his blade through the heads of Christians.

The returning party moved towards the head of the crowd where Ivar, their leader, sat waiting. At the front of the group was Hvitserk, looking angry and dragging along a whisper of a cloaked form followed by Ivar's warriors, Gussr and Loni. Ivar did not miss the bloodied cloth wrapped around Hvitserk's arm or the heavy cloak worn in the intense heat by the captive. Ah, he thought, an attempt to hide her body. These Christian women are so chaste, he chuckled to himself. The long blue garment did little to deter his men from whooping and yelling obscenities at her, grunting and wriggling their tongues between their fingers, pretending to hump the air. Ivar laughed along with their crude mockery.

Stopping in front of him, Hvitserk gave an annoyed look but said nothing, waiting for Ivar to address them.

"Hvitserk... did you have difficulty with her men?" he clicked his tongue and jerked his head as if to taunt. "Looks like your lack of training is causing you strife."

"It was not the guard. This one proved feisty," Hvitserk replied, shoving her forward to make his point.

Whipping her arm away, she attempted to pull free from his hard grip on her elbow but stilled quickly being surrounded by dozens of armed men. There was no escape for a captive here, that was obvious.

Raising his eyebrows, Ivar pursed his lips in surprise.

"This might prove more delightful than I thought. Straightening on the chair, he lifted his chin just enough to maintain his look of arrogance. "Release her," he nodded.

Leaning in, Hvitserk pressed his lips to the side of her cloaked ear.

"Do not be foolish pretty one."

Dropping his hand, she took a step away from, seemingly to shake off the feel of his touch. Standing still, she faced Ivar, waiting.

Lifting his palms to the air, he addressed his men theatrically in Norse, "Well, let us take a look at her."

She did not move. Stood motionless, causing a chorus of whistles and laughter to erupt from the heathen audience. Dropping his chin slightly, Ivar's expression hardened and his eyes narrowed at her.

"Take off your cloak!" he barked in her native tongue.

"I have lost my marital headdress. I will keep my cape on, thank you," she replied in a surprisingly even voice.

Ivar's head shot back and his eyes widened at her refusal. Not expecting the strong tone that replied from the small frame before him. He should hit her with his ax, he thought, teach her a lesson in front of his men, but he was too amused by her boldness. Feigning a sensitive tone, he translated her response to his men which was met with roaring laughter and guttural cheers. Ivar continued, patronizingly, in English.

"I do understand Princess, but I assure you, I will not be offended or report this break in your custom," he grinned to the men on either side of his chair.

Exhaling slowly, her small hands begun to untie the string at her neck. Bowing gently, she pushed the blue garment off her head. It slipped past her shoulders and she caught it, holding it under one arm. Looking up, she met Ivar's scrutiny.

Immediately sobering, he straightened his back, his expression now serious as his eyes skipped over her features, not expecting such a face. Standing before him was no Viking. With warm ivory skin and a delicate nose, she had a face shaped like a heart with perfectly plump, peach colored lips. Her unfaltering eyes were a soft blue framed by long lashes darker than her hair. That hair, he silently remarked! Unlike he had ever seen on any woman in Kattegat. It was kissed with the tone of a strawberry, giving her fair locks a copper hue under the direct sun. It hung over her shoulder, in a single loose plate, nearly hitting her waist and the tousled curl giving her otherwise controlled and refined appearance a libertine air. She was beautiful, elegant, even enchanting. And tiny! Swallowing, he clenched his teeth together, aware of his kindled response but unable to prevent his eyes from wandering over her petite form. Stanking before him, she did not falter and he could not be seen to either.

Pushing himself up from his chair, he handed his drink to the man next to him, and slipped his crutch under his arm, taking a few steps towards her. Watching as her eyes dropped to look at his braces, a surge of irrigation shot up the back of his neck.

"Do you know who I am?" he snapped, not prepared to play nice.

"I do, My Lord," she replied in a quiet tone.

A zing ran down his spine being addressed in such a way; he had never been called that by anyone. Prince Ivar and Master, of course, but this was new; all of this was new. Glancing at the thick silver cross hanging around her delicate neck, resting just above the hint of her breasts, he was surprised by the deep cut of her dress. For such a poise Christian, he expected more modesty.

"And tell me, Princess, how do you know me?"

"We have met before My Lord. I watched you play chess with my brother."

Again, unprepared, his face became serious, eyes glancing towards the sky searching his memory. He had no recollection of her. How was that possible, he wondered? She would have been young. He, himself had been young, barely sixteen at the time. She was surely three or four years younger, he guessed, his mind racing. What a difference eight years can make, he thought, taking in a deep breath, becoming aware of his men's attention.

"Leave me. We are done for now," he commanded in Norse, turning away and moving toward his chair.

Stepping back to her side, Hvitserk grabbed her again by the elbow. "Come, my pretty, we have a special tent set up just for you," he all but sneered, his voice low and threatening.

"Wait," Ivar barked. "No." Swiveling back to address them. "Take her to my tent. The Princess is too...." he paused, "fetching...to be left to you wolves." Adjusting his crutch under his arm, he raised a finger in the air, directing it at his brother. "She must remain unharmed, Hvitserk, to be of any value in negotiations."

"And you will not harm her?" Hvitserk scoffed.

"Hvitserk, do you think me an animal?" he preened, flashing a toothy smile.

Aethelswith's eyes widened at his startling appearance. Subtly, she scanned the animated brute men surrounding her, feeling their hungry, salacious eyes. Looking back to Ivar, she lifted her blue cloak, crossing her arms and squeezing it tightly to her chest before lowering her gaze and staring at the ground in front.

"Good girl," Ivar let out a high pitch laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Entering the tent, Ivar found the princess sitting on the grass, her legs tucked to one side and her head tilted back against the wooden post she was tied to. He knew she would be there, but he still felt an awkwardness about her presence in his tent. Straightening her neck, she adjusted to look at him.

A prince in his position had been introduced to the daughters of jarls and kings at home in Kattegat, visiting his family and city to discuss trade or to form alliances. Rarely had he exchanged words with any of these girls, and when he had, they were not left with a feeling of want or welcome. She was the first woman he had ever met who truly looked like a princess. Regal with intelligent eyes and beauty that Frigg herself must have created.

Somehow, he felt uneasy with his lack of reaction to her. He had no desire to cut into her or to see her blood streaked across her ivory skin or watch her tremble and shy away. Huffing, he crossed the tent, stopping so close to her, she was forced to strain her neck to look up.

“Will you be a good girl if I free your hands?” he smirked, thinking of Hvitserk’s bloodied arm and wounded pride.

Not responding, she stared back. Further surprised, he had anticipated a snivelly, frantic princess, whimpering and begging for mercy. Not this collected young woman who seemed to be waiting for him to spell out the parameters of the hostage arrangement. Again, this was unexpected.

Lowering her gaze, she scanned down his body, stopping at his legs. A shiver of insecurity shot through his chest as she seemed to analyze his braces. His body stiffened in response and his breath hitched under her scrutiny. 

“See something you like Princess?” he teased, his voice did not sounding as domineering as he intended.

Nervously, her eyes glanced back up to his before returning to his legs.

“You did not have these,” she paused searching for the right word, “contraptions...when you were in Wessex.”

Clever girl, he thought, distracting with familiarity.

“I do not remember you.” Shifting on his feet, his muscles contracted sharply from standing in place. “Did we meet?”

Aethelswith held his gaze a moment longer, her mind ticking over his question.

“Not formally.”

Eyes jumping between his features, she seemed to be studying his face. His smooth forehead and defined brows, vivid blue eyes and square jaw, and for a man, smooth full lips. She recalled being impressed by him all those years ago, naturally, as a young girl would be by a foreign, mysterious prince. She had scurried down corridors and peaked around doors to steal glances of the prisoner being dragged here and there. Now, all those years later, he had become an impressive and imposing man, with a face, she assumed, that would dissolve even the sternest dispositions. Noticing his eyes narrowing at her as if plotting his first strike, she swallowed audibly, knowing her fear was obvious. There was a serpent that lay beneath his controlled exterior, she suspected, a beast within. She could sense it. It’s sharp tongue with a craving to release its venom.

Uncomfortable under his gaze, she shifted, wincing from the burn of the ropes against the skin of her slight wrists.

“I will cut the rope. You sit there until I say. Yes?”

She nodded so slightly, someone sitting next to her would have missed it. 

As he moved away to the desk on the far side of the tent, she closed her eyes, attempting to steady her nerve and force practical thoughts into her mind. It was imperative that she create some form of delay to what was likely inevitable, him breaking her wide open.

Shuffling around to the far side of the table, he lowered to sit on a stool. Leaning forward, he unfastened the buckles of his braces, the flare of his nostrils and tight jaw, the only indication of his pain.

In preparation for this hostage-taking, Ivar had learned that Alfred and his sister were close. Aware of Alfred’s strict devotion to his religion, he thought the new king would be eager to prove himself to his Church and council. Further, he thought it was unlikely that Alfred would sacrifice an army of soldiers and risk his people for the safe return of only a sister. Having never had one, he did have many brothers but none that he couldn’t part with. 

But, not believing he would win a kingdom by holding Aethelswith hostage, the objective was to gain land with river access. His Viking fleet needed ease of movement on the waterways and the eventual passage to Mercia and Northumbria. He wanted to conquer it all, and for the time being, the current camp was well established and benefiting from the fertile soil and grazing land. The surrounding villages, all within a day’s travel for simple raiding, made life incredibly comfortable. The Saxon land was bountiful and so easily plundered but Ivar did miss the hard ground of home. It’s packed dirt and rocky land never threatened his step. 

Dropping his braces onto the grass beside the table, he tipped over to the ground and crawled towards her; her eyes following every sway of his body. Life for him, before his braces, had been spent dragging himself through the dirt. He had struggled through being the object of ridicule and slander, even worse, pity. Now as the commander of the Great Heathen Army, a ruthless and skilled warrior, the startled reactions to him crawling often gave him a thrill.

He nearly froze when he looked up and saw the expression of curiosity on her face, not shock or terror. She seemed fascinated by the way his broad shoulders teetered his weight and his lower half swayed behind. Stopping just in front of her, he sat and pulled his legs to one side. The exquisite woman tied on the ground in the tent of a Viking warlord appeared only mildly afraid. Where was that intoxicating fear in her eyes, he wondered?

“Are you afraid Princess?” he dropped his head to one side looking at her intently.

Eyelids fluttering quickly, she looked like he had startled her from her thoughts. 

“It is rude not to answer when asked a question,” he snapped.

Opening her mouth to answer, she ran her tongue over her dry bottom lip.

“I am.”

Leaning back slightly, frustration flared on his face. 

“But, I..I will do my duty for my king and people,” she continued, stuttering. 

“Are you willing to be a sacrificed?” he asked.

Frowning, she looked confused by his question.

“If it is the Lord’s plan.”

“You stupid girl!” he hissed. “It is my plan you should be concerned with. Not your Christian God’s. You know nothing of the true Gods.”

Swallowing, her anxious eyes looked toward the tent door. 

“You are right,” she cleared her throat. “I know nothing of your Gods. Is that what you intend to do with me?” She looked back to him with wide eyes. “Sacrifice?” her forehead rose in question.

He laughed so sharply it made her body jump.

“No, my beauty, as much as it would please Odin,” he shook his head gently. “What has Alfred told you about me,” he continued wanting, again, to hear the sound of her voice.

Pursing her lips, she looked like she was deciding whether to answer.

“That you are clever... and ruthless,” she spoke cautiously. 

“That is it?” he asked, clearly amused.

“No,” she lowered her voice as if about to tell a secret. “That your customs are gruesome,” she hesitated but continued seeing that he was waiting for more, “that your soldiers are barbaric and that you, you yourself, are a skilled fighter”.

“And?”

She looked down at the grass and back up to his face. “And, that you have no soul.”

Ivar smiled at her response and she stared at his white, sharp looking teeth.

“What do you think, Princess?” his grin widened. 

Her gaze danced across his features again; his braided hair, his expressive mouth, his broad shoulders and back up to his startling blue eyes.

“You do not look as if you have no soul.”

Surprised by her words, he was unsure of what to say next, dropping his eyes to her chest. The swells of her bound breasts were visible just above the neckline of her dress. Reaching his hand forward, he stopped when she quickly pulled back. His eyes flicked up to hers and he flashed a coy smile as he grabbed the silver cross dangling in her cleavage, squeezing it in his hand.

“Do you think this cross will protect you from Ivar the Boneless? Hmm?”

Eyes wide, her gaze was locked on his. He yanked the pendant abruptly jolting her head forward, the hair around her face falling across her left eye. Eyes wide with fright, her mouth fell open as if to scream but she remained silent.

Looking at the cross in his hand and back up to her disheveled face, his eyebrows furrowed as he fought the urge to reach forward and push the locks of fallen hair away from her elegant face.

Turning towards the door of the tent, he yelled out in Norse. A young woman rushed in, her eyes darting between Ivar and Aethelswith. Ivar ordered something in his language and the slave nodded and left. Withdrawing a knife from his belt, he moved closer and leaned over her left side, pulling her wrists and cutting the rope. Aethelswith’s body tensed having him so close, smelling his scent of leather and sweat and fresh grass.

The slave returned with a jug and two cups tucked under her arm. Placing them on a small table by the door, she poured something into a cup and walked over, stretching her arm out to Aethelswith. Shooting his hand up, startling both women, Ivar snatched the cup from her hand. Straightening, he watched Aethelswith for a moment as she sat, rubbing her chafed wrists. 

Dismissing the slave, he offered the cup to Aethelswith. Raising her hand to receive it, he hastily pulled back causing her to drop her hand and eye him uneasily. 

Lifting the cup a second time, he whispered, “Water.”

Leaning forward, she let him bring the cup to her lips. After the second sip of water, she brought her hands to the sides, careful not to touch his fingers, and drank fast, emptying it. With eyes lit by curiosity, Ivar’s sweet smile looked like that of a boy.


	4. Chapter 4

Not another word was spoken between Ivar and Aethelswith for six nights.

A bed had been built in the spot she sat, tied to the wooden pole, on her first day in the heathen camp. It consisted of packed straw beneath a fur, on top of a wooden pallet. A wool blanket had been provided for cover, but it was far too warm for the summer heat. Hardly going to complain, she was surprised that any thought had gone into a bed for her at all. Grateful that she was not forced to share his.

Two large meals were brought to her each day. Sitting cross-legged at the end of her bed, she mostly picked at the food with little appetite. She would not dare sit on the one stool while eating that was tucked under his wooden table.

They had little contact. Ivar rose early before dawn each morning, leaving immediately, and not returning until dark. Aethelswith forced herself to sleep facing the canvas wall. That way when he would enter or lay in his bed, he would only see her back. Not knowing what might trigger his attention, she avoided not only eye contact but allowing him to see her face.

The slave girl introduced herself as Brana on the second night. Aethelswith nearly jumped off the bed when Brana spoke to her in English. There was no opportunity for her to ask the young woman questions as Brana shushed her and pointed towards the tent door indicating the guard on duty. 

Brana, too, seemed always on duty, day and night as Ivar’s personal thrall. Her demeanor struck Aethelswith as efficient and practical and invariably thick-skinned. Tall and lean like the Vikings, she looked strong from hard work. Her hair was sheered bluntly at her shoulders and was pulled back from her face in a handkerchief bonnet. The darkness of her brown hair was similar to so many in Wessex but her blue eyes indicated her northern heritage. They were a fascinating colour, the outer rim of the iris, so dark it looked black, inside a pale, icy blue. Those eyes plus the small mole above the corner of her mouth gave her otherwise neutral face a touch of femininity. 

Aethelswith looked forward to those few moments throughout the day Brana would enter the tent. She would tend to her duties in silence, always casting her a flat, pinched smile before leaving. A gesture of encouragement, Aethelswith told herself.

Each day she was both grateful to be alive and unharmed, yet anxious and impatient for something to change...for something to happen. Anything. She pictured Alfred, anguished at home, surrounded by his council, strategizing for her return. And, without question, agonizing over the possible treatment of her by the Northmen. Her sweet brother had a sharp, intelligent mind, a deep sense of duty yet a sensitive heart and would be tormented by the weight of this negotiation. She, herself, having no way to gather information about her captivity was going insane. Concluding that idleness and isolation were nearly as torturous as a scourge to the skin.

On the morning of day five, Aethelswith whispered a request to Brana who frowned and shook her head no. Aethelswith silently mouthed the word please but Brana only turned and left. That night, when the evening meal was delivered, Brana passed the plate to Aethelswith along with a hard, sooty chunk of charcoal and a look of warning.

Once alone, she slid her bed away from the tent wall, the base of the canvas, a concealable space to sketch with the smuggled charcoal. Conserving the limited workspace and rationing the time spent creating small birds or toadstools, she was thrilled by this new activity. It beat braiding and unbraiding her dirty hair, or, attempting to visualize the faces attached to the foreign voices beyond the tent walls.

As she roughed outlines on the textured material, her mind drifted again to Winchester. Was her isolation here truly that different than there? At home, she was surrounded by comfort and luxury and, of course, safe from Northmen. Yet still without company aside from her servants, attending worship or the occasional meal with her brothers. She sighed wondering at what point her husband was informed of her capture.

If she ever returned, she would bathe every day and sleep in the nude. It would be her remuneration for having to remain in the same filthy dress, day and night, in that muggy, serpent den of a tent.

\---

The following evening, Brana and another woman entered the tent, scarcely acknowledging Aethelswith’s presence and started to prep the wooden bath. Buckets and buckets of heated water were brought in and a long cream coloured sheet hung, with some difficulty, to separate the tub from the rest of the tent. She was going to wash! The elation nearly quelling her fear of being in a tent, under heathen guard and hostage to Ivar the Boneless. Nearly.

The thralls took her wrinkled and grime-covered dress away, she hoped for cleaning; what was left of it, at least. 

The other thrall helping Brana was older and appeared to have worked a long life in service. Her arms were lean and sinewy, her once blonde hair, now a tarnished grey and her skin was weathered, showing the effects of the elements. 

Watching them work, Aethelswith wondered for what length of time both had been slaves to the savage Northmen. Where had they been taken from and what pain had they been forced to endure? Clearing her throat, she realized she had never given the servants at home the same thought or consideration. 

The two ladies worked with purpose. Not cold toward her, indifferent perhaps as they moved in silence, obviously accustomed to this task and working with the other. Leaving on her slip, the older slave yanked Aethelswith’s dress off her so roughly it made her think of a chicken having its feathers pulled. 

Sliding the slip off her shoulders, Aethelswith let it drop, pooling on the grass below and exposing her skin. She felt and heard them still, hesitate, as they watched her naked form slip down into the steaming bath. Keeping her gaze fixed on the tops of her knees, which stood slightly out of the water, she did not want to see their expressions or their exchange of glances. Instead, she closed her eyes and dipped further into the water, so hot, it stung her skin.

Once the layer of putrescence had been scrubbed away and left in the now tepid water, Brana wrapped a drying sheet around Aethelswith’s dripping body. Oh, a familiar feeling, she thought, a simple movement that had been done possibly a thousand times to her before. Brana’s hand caught her arm just below the elbow as Aethelswith turned to walk passed. Not making eye contact, Brana instead gently squeezed her arm imparting a small offering of tenderness. Sympathy for what had already happened, or possibly, what was yet to come. Closing her eyes, Aethelswith soaked in the contact, suddenly awake to just how starved her skin was for the warmth of another.

Behind the strung sheet, Aethelswith heard his voice cut sharply through the ladies' quiet chatter. When had he returned, she wondered, having not heard anyone enter the tent. He seemed to be questioning them or scolding them, it was hard to tell listening to his raspy, clipped foreign words. Her entire body froze sensing they were speaking of her. Something in the tone of the older slave's response betrayed it.

Sitting perched on her bed, her long damp hair was wound up and knitted into itself to stay in place and she wore, only, a thin, clean, white night slip Brana had provided. Instinctively, she raised the wool blanket to cover the back of her bare shoulders as if it was a shield and could provide some small sliver of refuge. The tent flap opened and closed and all fell silent. Listening, she could only hear the distant sounds of voices beyond the canvas walls. 

Had they all left, she wondered? Was she alone? She did not feel alone. A swish and a clamour sounded, followed by a fast rustling before she was grabbed from behind. Letting out a startled gasp at the force of the contact, strong, monstrous hands gripped her shoulders on either side, thumbs pushing hard into the tender skin of her back. Hot breath hit the base of her neck just below her wet hair and she thought, this is it; this is the moment he takes me, defiles me, executes his depraved way of being.

The sound of her slip tearing between her shoulder blades jolted her back into her body. Pushing her forward, he exposed her skin in the glow of candlelight and stopped. Ah! She understood now. The heathen leader must have overheard them talking about her body and demanded that they explain. No wool blanket or shield of refuge could be her safeguard now. No expertly cut, embroidered gown made of the finest silk could cloak this truth. 

Dropping her chin to her chest, she exhaled slowly, pushing her hands down onto the bed to balance herself. After many moments held forward, he released her right shoulder and she braced. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, waiting for a strike, a blow, that ubiquitous act of power over and hatred for another. At what age are young boys taught to diminish women through violence, she wondered? 

Instead, she felt the slightest graze of a touch, a feather, a soft pass of fingers along one of the deep, distended scars on her back, tracing the enduring evidence of her relatively new and merciless marriage. Stilling, Ivar abruptly released her and she slumped forward.

Backing away, he moved towards his own bed in the corner of the tent allowing her time to lie down and despite the warmth, draw the blanket up to her chin. She could not recall the candles being blown out or the moment she fell asleep, only that, lying in the darkness on her pallet bed, she could still feel his fingertips on the raised skin of her back.

Waking, she heard the sounds of commotion beyond the tent walls, grinding metal and unhurried voices. Exhaling wearily, she sensed, more than she knew, that Ivar's discovery had altered things. Sitting up, she held her hands across the chest of the torn slip; he was gone and she was again alone. And, where was her dress?


	5. Chapter 5

Many weeks had passed with no change in her captivity. Aethelswith had begun to feel numb to the monotonous routine of the day. 

Informed by Brana that Ivar would allow her to move freely in the camp while under guard, Aethelswith’s elation bubbled over causing her to jump onto her feet and pull Brana into a clumsy embrace. Finally, she would be able to stretch her legs, breathe the fresh air, perhaps, talk with Brana more often. Not daft, she knew she would not be able to escape the Northman’s protected camp but still, she was excited to leave the confining walls of the tent, even, for a short while. 

Informed, with stern seriousness, that she was to be chaperoned at all times, Aethelswith was introduced to her guard. Gussr was his name and he was a tower of a man and Aethelswith remembered him well from the day of her capture with his long grey hair and beard. Perhaps, past his prime fighting years, she had witnessed his strength and had, no doubt, he was an experienced warrior; one who was obviously trusted by Ivar. He moved with ease and his eyes seemed patient. Not feeling as though he was a threat to her, she was somewhat disappointed to learn he could not speak a word of her language. Any outlet for communication would have been welcome. Within days, hand signals and head motions were introduced between them allowing for the little necessary back and forth. Always, he kept a small distance and moved behind her, and as a result, secretly to herself, she pet named him her shadow.

Gussr earned Night in Shining Armour prestige the morning he entered the tent, heaving in Aethelswith’s heavy wooden trunk. Astonished, she rushed to open the lid, finding her belongings still neatly packed by Ardith’s careful hands. They had not been rummaged through and not a single thing seemed to be missing; even her few pieces of jewelry were there. Running her fingers over the soft fabrics of her clothing, her mind stilled wondering if this wooden chest represented the only belongings she would ever have again. Closing the lid, she rested her hands on the decorative carving of a rising sun over figures bent in worship. Turning to look at Gussr, she bowed her headed and thanked him. Responding with a simple shrug, the message was clear, returning her trunk was not his decision. None, the less, she was grateful.

\------

The sun began to dip in the sky and the shade, cast by the surrounding forest, slowly crept over the camp’s west side. Aethelswith sat on her bed, plate on her lap, eating venison and potatoes when the tent flap opened. Not having to see his form coming through the door, she knew it was him. There was something in the way the flap was held open for a moment that told her it was not Brana, who was simply incapable of moving slowly.

Stepping in, he paused and looked at her, her eyes widening with surprise. Quickly putting her plate and utensils down on the bed, she stood, straightening her back and looked back at his heavy stare.

“Why do you sit on the bed to eat?” his voice was curt.

Her eyes darted to Ivar’s table and back to him. “I did not feel it appropriate to sit at the table.”

Glancing at the desk, he shuffled back to the tent door, opening it and calling out in Norse. Returning to where he had been standing, he waited, his eyes flicking around the tent, not making eye contact with her.

The flap opened and Gussr ducked through with a stool carved from a tall stump of wood in his arms. Dropping it onto the grass opposite to Ivar’s side of the table, he nodded quickly and left. Looking back to Aethelswith, Ivar shifted his head awkwardly, clearing his throat. 

“Princess, dine at the table. I am eating here tonight”.

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied quietly but did not move.

He jerked his head, “Now”, lifting his hand in the direction of the table. 

Cautiously, she bent down and collected her plate and cup of water. Walking past him towards the table, she almost expected to see him, in her periphery, lunge to strike her. Setting her plate and cup down on the desk, she turned back to him and he nodded, impatiently ushering her to continue. 

Sitting stiffly, with her back to him, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and waited. Rounding the table, he plunked down and began unlatching his braces, shooting her a glance after he winced. Averting her eyes, she reached for her cup and drank, not wanting to exacerbate his obvious discomfort of being watched. 

Dropping his braces to the ground, he sighed in relief as the tent flaps again opened and Brana rushed through, placing a plate of food in front of him. Filling his cup, she left the jug of ale on the table and moved to grab his braces from the ground, carrying them, with difficulty, over to rest against the table beside his bed. Casting Aethelswith an indistinguishable look, she quickly slipped out through the tent flaps.

Picking up his fork he began to eat jerking his head to Aethelswith to begin. The food was suddenly void of flavour, her mouth was dry and she finished her water to help swallow it down. The tense atmosphere was nearly unbearable and Ivar’s loud chewed and drinking was all the broke the silence. Sitting perfectly still, Aethelswith could feel his eyes flicking up to look at her throughout the uncomfortable meal.

Lifting the jug, he filled his cup hesitating for a moment before filling Aethelswith’s. Surprised, she looked up at him, realizing she had not seen his face this close before.

“Thank you,“ she uttered quietly.

“She speaks your language,”. Ivar replied without looking up from his plate. “The slave.”

Pausing, Aethelswith wondered if Brana would be scolded for conversing with her. Clearing her throat, she took a chance, feeling somewhat desperate for conversation, even if it was with her captor. 

“Yes.”

“I have seen you in the camp the last three days.” 

It was a statement and Aethelswith wondered if it was a warning that she was being watched.

“Yes, my Lord.” 

Looking up from his plate, their eyes met and she used it as an opportunity to, perhaps, ease the strain. 

“Thank you for allowing me to move freely.”

“You are not free.” His voice cut over hers and his expression again looked hard. 

Lowering her eyes down to her plate, Ivar studied her more closely. The curls that framed her delicate face, her loose braid hanging over one shoulder nearly touching her lap. The soft candlelight warmed her smooth skin and reflected a glint in her nearly grey eyes. He noticed how small her hands were and slender fingers with unbroken nails and knew her pale perfect flesh had never endured the cold elements or a day of work. 

Curious, as he looked at her now, how and why she developed this steadfast composure; this diplomacy. Here she sat, a captive, across the table from him sharing a meal, and to his eyes, appeared only mildly uncomfortable. His mind drifted back to that night and the puffy scars he had seen on the skin of her back, and he guessed that her life was not all morning prayers and fancy balls. Further, he wondered at what point he would reduce her to what she surely was, a weak Christian. Beautiful, but a weak Christian.

“Is there a problem with your meal?” he asked.

“No, not at all.” She looked up from her drink, smoothing the puzzled look from her raised forehead. “Thank you.”

“Why do you look like you are trying to see through the bottom of your cup?”

“What is this?” She lifted her cup slightly.

“Mead.”

“Mead,” she repeated to herself. “It is new to me.”

“What are you used to drinking?”

“Wine and water of course... milk with breakfast.” Her eyes darted to his, and she hoped she did not sound as if she was complaining.

“Princess, how will you survive captivity?” he crooned sarcastically.

Aethelswith’s mouth lifted into a smile and she looked down at her unfinished meal, raising her cup and taking a drink to conceal her amusement. 

Shocked, his expression fell and he stared at her. He had seen her smile, lit by something he had said.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to look at his face. There was no smile but his eyes were beaming. The face of both an angel and a devil, she thought, shifting awkwardly on her stool, deciding that it was quite possibly the most expressive face she had ever seen. Thinking, in this light, he looked far too young to be a heathen warlord.

Brana returned and cleared their plates, refilling their cups before leaving.

“I have seen your drawings,” he said with a playful lift in his tone. 

Aethelswith’s eyes shot to his but she remained silent. Concern clear in her face, she glanced toward her wooden trunk that concealed the markings on the canvas. 

“Ravens have an important meaning in my religion,” he continued, taking a drink from his cup.

She did not say a word. 

“My favorite is the fox,” he grinned, clearly pleased with himself for catching her off guard. “Is this how princesses pass the time in their castles?”

“The arts are reserved for men, I am afraid. I cannot openly sketch at home.” 

Dropping his head to one side, he frowned, “And, why?”

“It is just what’s so,” she said gently taking another sip of mead.

“Hmm. That is stupid.” He tilted his head, his eyes staying on her face, savoring the pink colour of her cheeks. “In Kattegat, women can do anything men can. Be shieldmaidens, even rule. Christians really are ridiculous people. You should be glad I took you.”

Her eyes widened and she glanced up seeing he was smirking at her. 

“My lord?”

“Yes,” he leaned forward, placing his forearms onto the rim of the table.

“May I be excused?”

“No!” his tone was sharper than he had intended and her shoulders noticeably dropped. They sat quietly for a moment. “Do you know the game tafl?” his head motioned to where it sat at the end of the table.

“Chess?” she asked looking at the board with pieces set in place.

“Yes. Chess,” he mimicked her accent.

“Yes, I can play.”

“Good.” Moving his cup to the side, he slid the board over. “Do you have any skill?”

“You may not be glad you took me,” she glanced up at him, doing her best at keeping her chin strong. 

Ivar’s face morphed into a smile.

“Youngest goes first Princess.”


	6. Chapter 6

Amusement pulled at the corners of Ivar’s mouth as he tore meat from a small greasy rib bone. Slouching casually, he rested on an elbow in his wooden chair under the canopy of the tent he used to meet with his men.

“Are you listening?” Hvitserk asked.

Following Ivar’s line of sight, Hvitserk saw the Princess standing down on the rocky shore of the stream among a few thralls. Her face was locked in concentration as the women seemed to be showing her how to bait a fishhook.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk repeated, running his hand through his hair.

“Yes, I am listening.” Ivar’s lifted his cheek as if feeling the breeze on his skin, the smile was now gone from his face.

“You had the King’s scout turned away. Why? What is the plan?”

“I am waiting.”

“For?” Hvitserk raised his hands in question, his expression showing his confusion.

“Tactics take time. Let the king’s concern for his sister…” pausing, he searched for the appropriate word, “fester.” Picking up another rib, he began tearing off the meat with his teeth.

“Why not tell the King, now, that you want the area on this side of the river. Like we discussed.”

“Like we discussed, like we discussed,” Ivar mocked, irritated. “I will.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Sneering, Ivar threw his rib down onto the platter in front of him, glaring up at Hvitserk.

“Are you not listening?” he hissed.

“Maybe, brother, you are thinking she will be cozy once the frost comes,” he said, lifting his brows, looking back toward the ladies standing at the water’s edge. Aethelswith was now giggling with one of the younger slaves, wrinkling her nose in disgust holding a grub in her hand.

“Do not be moronic,” Ivar scoffed. “There are plenty of women here if I want to warm my bed,” he stared at Hvitserk, impatient for him to be done.

“Yes, Ivar but you never do.”

“Do I need to remind you why, hmm?” Ivar’s eyes narrowed at Hvitserk, before glancing back towards the riverside. Exhaling slowly, he forced air out through his nose, pushing down on his armrests to straighten in his chair. Squinting, his eyes zeroed in on her petite form, standing on the rocky shoreline. His mind seemed to settle and he wondered if she had enjoyed the milk he had organized for her breakfast.

——

Nearly a month had crept by since their first meal and game of tafl. Despite the rigid atmosphere in those early days, Ivar had since taken all evening meals in the tent with her. Aethelswith was curious as to why and skeptical that his sudden interest in conversation was to put her at ease. Instead, she had suspicions that his strategy related to withdrawing information about her brother and his kingdom.

She waited for him to ask a question relating to either, but so far, he had not. In the meantime, she rather enjoyed this variation in her isolation. As guarded and awkward as some of their discussions had been. She even, foolishly, looked forward to sunset each day which marked the time of his return for the night.

“My Lord, do you ever sleep?”

“Not compared to you,” Ivar jabbed. “I have never known a person to require so much rest. Are you practicing for death?” he dropped his chin and eyed her.

“Should I be?” she looked back with a flat expression.

“Princess,” he leaned forward, smirking, “I have no current plans to send you to your god.”

Pinching a smile, she crunched into her apple, picking up and admiring the parchment paper Ivar had brought her. Obviously ripped out of a Saxon book, she assumed the perfectly written calligraphy was biblical verses recorded in Latin. She would have to push the idea out of her mind that using the back side for drawing would be sacrilege. After all, how could she reject a gift from her heathen captor? Being a violent man known for his cruelty was a convenient excuse that she could swallow.

“Tell me, Princess, something you have not told me before.” He looked up from polishing his ax. “Surprise me, hmm?”

Closing her eyes, Aethelswith looked to be sorting through images in her mind from her life.

“I have killed before,” she said in a flat tone.

Snapping his eyes back to her, Ivar waited for her to continue, his brows lifted expectantly.

“I was ten years old. The leaves were just starting to turn colour and I remember thinking that it would be the last day of the warm season. It happened in the training field behind the chapel with my brothers. They made me, well, Aethelred really…” Aethelswith paused taking her time.

“Continue,” Ivar flicked his hand impatiently.

“Well,” she leaned forward tilting her head toward him and whispered, “He made me snare a gofer.”

“Ridiculous,” Ivar scoffed, rolling his eyes

“Murder is murder,” she fluttered her eyelashes and leaned back with a twinkle in her eye. “It was horrific,” she continued. “I was so chuffed that I caught the little thing, yet within a moment, I was overwhelmed with sadness and regret.” Placing her hands over her heart, she looked back at Ivar with a solemn face.

Frowning, he bit his lips to stop his smile and shook his head, pretending not to be amused.

“To make the experience even more traumatizing,” she added, “my brother told our mother and she told one of the servants. It was announced in the dining room that night by Mairi our cook that the table had me to thank for our evening meal. She uncovered my plate and said, your catch Princess.” Grimacing, her expression broke into a broad smile. “It turned out to be lamb, but the effect was great,” she laughed.

Ivar could not help the genuine smile that stretched across his face, enchanted, not only by her tail but the spirit in which she told him. She seemed so bright and alive like she was sharing an antidote with a true friend. He would never verbalize to another, barely admitting it to himself, that he cherished these quiet evenings. Waited impatiently, throughout the day, for the sun to descend and the night to settle around them.

“Princess, how many cups have you had?

“I am drinking water.”

“Wise,” he smiled again.

“My Lord?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“It is inevitable,” he sighed dramatically.

“Do you have someone? A wife?”

His hand stilled on his ax and his eyes flitted up to hers but he quickly looked away, resuming the repetitive motion on his blade.

“Someone, you care for?” she pressed, staring at the carved wooden dice she rolled back and forth in her hand.

Shifting his jaw, side to side, he answered without looking back, “Woman, I am always here with you. Do you think I have someone?”

“You will have nothing if you keep on like that,” she said in a gentle voice.

His eyes shot up to hers. “What do you know about it?” he snapped. “I am Viking! You are a pointless Princess. Raiding is my way of life. I will not be constrained by a wife or a family while I am conquering new lands, building my legacy.” His voice dropped to a low, threatening tone. “You Saxons are so easily satisfied, sitting within your castle walls, lording over peasant farmers, growing fat under self-placed crowns.” He straightened on his stool, jerking his chin higher. “I will be the most famous Viking in the world one day,” he glared at her.

Holding his stare, she opened her mouth to speak but stopped, her eyes softening, glancing down at his ax.

“My apologies,” she leaned forward, placing the tips of her fingers on the edge of the table. “I was speaking of your ax. You will have no blade left if you sharpen it so, night after night. Please forgive me, I don’t know what I am saying. I should not have,” her voice drifted off. Pressing her lips together, she was careful not to give away any expression that might have him feel mocked. Ivar’s neck stiffened and he swallowed hard, shifting on his stool.

“If you will excuse my Lord, I will retire.” Standing, she made her way to her side of the tent. Ivar opened his mouth to speak but said nothing, just watched her move away from the table.

Lying awake, Aethelswith listened to the sound of Ivar shifting and rustling under the furs of his bed. It was not often that he retired at the same time as her, often staying up late, working at his table. She assumed, based on the little she had seen, he studied scrimmage strategies and maps of the river systems and countryside. Materials he likely did not wish for her to see. Regardless of how late he worked, he was always gone before Aethelswith woke. His attention needed on various matters within the camp. She suspected he vanished early, partly, to avoid the awkwardness of their conversations the previous night. Dawn was always the stark reminder, for her at least, of their true dynamic.

Another sigh came from his side of the tent.

“Lord?”

“What?”

“Are you well?”

“Fine.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes,” a long silence ensued. “To stop imagining gofers.”

Snorting out a laugh, Aethelswith lay under the covers of her bed, and Ivar lay in his, grinning from ear to ear.

“Gods!” he exclaimed.” I am forced to share my tent with a pig. An actual snorting pig!”

Outside the stars continued to shift in the sky and the cool winds whisked the fallen leaves across the ground, dampening the sounds of their giggles from inside the tent.


	7. Chapter 7

The horn blew signaling the return of the army to camp. Dropping her chunk of charcoal onto the wooden table, Aethelswith sighed analyzing the two smudged ravens perched upon a wispy birch branch. The drawing, her most recent fixation, had become too detailed to enjoy working on. 

The rumbling of heavy footsteps and thundering of horses could be felt in the ground below her feet and the whooping and hollering heard in the distance. Sighing again, she thought how pleased they seemed with themselves, returning from some violent, callous pillaging of a nearby village. Likely one she would recognize the name of.

Tucking the parchment into a stack of loose pages, she stood, dusting off the sooty grime from her fingers, and headed out the tent door, her large Viking shadow quickly falling into step. The wind was sharp and smelt of the approaching cold season and she tightened her lavender shall around her shoulders, making her way to the back of the crowd gathered to welcome home the army. Huffing, she nudged her way past the tall individuals for a better position to watch the returning parade. Stopping, her eyes searched the steady stream of lively, cheerful men and shieldmaidens.

Where was it, she wondered, her forehead crinkling? She could not hear it. Turning to Gussr, she lifted her brow in question wishing she had learned some Norse in order to communicate. Returning her look, he gave her a flat smile and assurance with a subtle nod.

There it is! Whipping around, she looked at the men cresting the grassy knoll and in the distance was the sound. Rolling, rattling, wooden wheels, crashing over uneven ground. The head of the iron decorated white horse was first to come into sight. Ivar had returned. His face was bright and even from a distance, his blue eyes shone as broadly as his smile. Biting her bottom lip, she forced herself not to mirror his expression. How can such a violent creature have such a captivating face, she wondered? It reminded her of the stories from sermons at home, the devil placing demons in the world to entice the innocent. His smile dimmed as his brilliant blues seemed to search the crowds on either side of the rough trail. Instinctively, she rose onto her tippy toes, his eyes locking onto hers. The intensity of his stare caused her to nod a modest greeting and quickly look away, breaking the exchange. Turning, she made her way back through the thralls heading for Brana, who would be grateful for an extra set of hands.

There she is, he thought, noticing that her slight shoulders seemed to soften once she saw him. He wondered what that suggested along with the faint simper that seemed to cross her lips. This had become a custom, Ivar seeking her out upon returning to camp after a day away raiding or hunting. He would tell himself that it was simply the burden of ensuring her safety that compelled him to find her, return to her. She wore that soft coloured shall again, he noted, thinking she would be amazed by the exotic garments brought in from far away lands for trade in the busy market of Kattegat. Images of her wandering the merchant stalls at home flickered through his mind. 

A bluster of cool wind bit the skin of his cheeks as he slowed the chariot outside the meeting tent. A stable hand raced forward to take the leads and he barked at the thrall to inform Brana that he and the princess would require warmer furs that night. Clearing his throat, he stopped and shook his head catching his own thoughts, telling himself, his concern for her comfort was only to prevent being disturbed by her complaints. Ignoring the truth that she had never once fussed about any detail of her captivity.

—

Placed on the corner of her pallet bed was a small wooden box with an intricately carved lid. The design included angular lines knotted and woven together around a small heart. The heart appeared to be a different type of wood, inlaid with the deeper coloured wood of the box. Opening the lid, she found seven smooth cylinders of charcoal. The box was resting on twelve sheets of thin, coarsely edged, blank parchment. The skin on her face bloomed with heat and a surge of excitement filled her chest. This was for her artwork; real tools for an artist. This was a gift from Ivar.

—

Ivar entered the tent to find Aethelswith on her knees, leaning forward, on all fours. She was smudging a dark line with a finger on her right hand and Ivar smiled, noticing the smooth piece of coal on the parchment above. His eyes drifted to the roundness of her perfectly shaped bottom on display through her fitted cream dress. The warm light thrown by numerous candles only highlighting the join of her cheeks. 

Unable to move his feet or say a word, he stood motionless, staring. An unfamiliar sensation prodded his attention and he straightened, lifting his chin as a streak of annoyance rushed through him. Was she that naive that she did not realize herself, sitting carelessly in such a position? She could attract the attention of violent, brutal men, crazed with desire. His face grew stern and his brow pulled together. She is too childlike to know how fortunate she is that he oversees her protection, he thought. That he, years ago, stored away any want for female flesh, as muted and fleeting as it had ever been. 

It would be nothing for one of his men to approach her from behind and sink their teeth into her, taste and smell her perfect skin, rip up the back of her dress and climb the curve of her back. Grind into the crack of her splendid behind and claim her, take her, feel her entirely. Blinking, he attempted to clear the images from his mind. She is so stupid, he grimaced, heat beginning to burn the skin of his face. No other men must be allowed near her, ever, he told himself.

“Gods!” he growled in frustration.

“My Lord!” she cried, startled. Scrambling forward onto her feet, she turned to face him. “I was distracted.”

Clenching his teeth, he hoped the colour of his cheeks did not match their tingling sensation. Scanning her body standing in front of him, he noticed the way her chin was subtly dropped and her eyes lifted looking at him from under her lashes.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she tipped her face dawn, “for the drawing set. It is stunning.”

Saying nothing, he continued to take in her form, bowed, pious stance with an air of submissiveness. There was something else in her expression that he could not decipher. If he did not believe she despised him for being a heathen, likely repulsed by his disfigured body, he would have said her tone was warm, even affectionate. Continuing to look at her, he noticed how soft and large her eyes were, a small glint of light reflecting. Gods, she looked beautiful in this light, he thought, grunting an indistinguishable reply and shuffling passed her to sit on the stool behind his table. Grabbing anything, something off the top to focus his mind and still the reaction in his body.

\---

There was a fire in his eyes whenever he returned from a raid, a charge in the air around him, she thought. As if touching death left his senses heightened. Absurdly, she found herself drawn to it, that hunger, some essence of power and virility. It felt dangerous, like dangling a hand before a coiled viper. It woke a warm curiosity in her, excitement even, all peppered with a dose of shame. 

—

Her sleep was like a storm that night, rising, twisting swells, building towards some unknown break. And then… calm. Lying on her back on the ground in a field of tall grass, mixed with fragrant wildflowers, she listening to the distant sound of waves breaking against the shore. Feeling the sun, warm on her skin, brilliantly bright, even through her closed lids. Another scent stirred her senses; wet grass and leather. It was his scent. He was there, close. She must be dreaming. When had she memorized the smell of his skin? How was it so imprinted in her mind that she could conjure it in her dreams and taste it on the roof of her mouth? She slowly inhaled, she breathed him in. 

“Ivar…Ivar?” Her calls were lost in the sound of the grass rustling in the warm wind. 

Slamming open her eyes, the slanted ceiling of the tent came into focus. There was a soft light, but it was not morning. Pushing up to lean on her elbows, she saw Ivar sitting at his wooden table, not studying the maps below his still hands, instead, staring directly at her. The muted light cast shadows across his eyes, concealing them like black pits. The glow made him look older and viscous like he was assessing a trapped animal.

The only sound was her panting breath. Had she spoken in her sleep? She was too warm and felt as if she could not take a breath.

“Aethelswith?” his brow knitted making his appearance look more severe.

“I need air,” she sat up. “I need air, I can not breathe.”

Pushing the furs back, she rose, standing in only her thin night slip. Frantically, she put on her dressing gown and rushed out the tent door. The brisk night air filled her lungs feeling sharp and welcome and the need to sit by the riverside distracted her from the cold uneven ground below her bare feet. She hurried down the path to the edge of the water, sitting on the trunk of a cut tree that had not yet been split. Listening to the melodic water, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, finally feeling the bite of the night air.

“Tell me of your husband.”

Scaring, she jumped at the sound of his voice. The moving water had concealed the sounds of him dragging himself across the ground. Saying nothing further, he dropped her woven shall down onto the trunk beside her and she nodded her thanks, wrapping it around herself. Leaning forward she tucked the long ends under her feet as a barrier to the frigid stones, listening to him round the end of the trunk, heaving himself up to sit at the far end, pulling his legs straight.

“This Burgred.” There was no subtly to his sneer. Opening his mouth as if to say more, he hesitated, lowering his gaze down to the top of his leather boot.

“My husband…” stopping, she cleared her throat or, perhaps, she was just stalling, searching for the right way to respond. How does one describe their monster husband to their monster captor, she wondered? Shaking her head, she knew it would be ridiculous to assume Ivar’s thoughts based on his questions, instead, understanding he had this natural ability to sniff the meaning in what was not being said.

“I married him just over a year ago. He is the close friend of my brother, Aethelred, and comes from a noble family. My mother felt it a suited match.”

“Is he the one who marked your back?” Ivar asked already certain of the answer, instead, curious how she would navigate this exchange.

“He is a complicated man,” the volume of her voice was barely above the sound of the river.

“A scout arrived this evening with word from your brother. He wants to negotiate your return.”

“My brother is true king and a good man.” Turning she looked at Ivar’s profile in the moonlight, the brightness making his skin look almost blue.

“Is your husband a good man?” he turned towards her, causing her to look back to the sparkling water.

“My husband is an ambitious man.”

Ah, Ivar thought.

“Will returning to your ambitious husband please you?” he asked, his voice blunt. 

“Returning to my rightful place will please me, yes.”

“That was not my question!” he hissed, raising his voice above the quiet tones they had been using.

“I will do my duty,” she replied sharply.

“Yes, princess, you have explained this before, I do remember your duty.” Crooking his neck, he dropped his head to one side. “Your duty to who, exactly?

“To God. To Wessex… and my family of course.”

Ivar scoffed, “And your god cares about your duty?”

“I am being tested,” she closed her eyes. “I can feel it.” She could sense his smirk boring into her. Refusing to meet his gaze, she looked up towards the nearly full moon. “I am tangled in the midst of a war that has nothing to do with me. Like one of those carved pieces in your tafl set, my purpose and value what I can be traded for.”

“Is your husband the reason you do not cry for home?”

Aethelswith looked down at the smooth, shining rocks in front of her.

“My Lord, you have your men and an army around you at all times. You have likely never known true loneliness.” Closing her eyes again, she listened to the sounds of the night, the frogs, the animal calls, the moving air, and water. “I miss the comfort of home, yes, and the rare occasion I can visit with my family but whether I am alone there or alone here, I am still alone.”

Looking away from her his face grew tight and drawn. How could he possibly articulate his experience of loneliness? He shook his head, searching for the words. The depth of rejection and alienation he had endured growing up in a village where everyone thought him a useless cripple. Where everyone knew he had been left in the woods by his father to die. His brothers had been his only true companions and those memories were now blurred in a history of darkness. The truth was, he had spent more time with her than he had anyone in his life and he so desperately wanted to share his pain.

“Princess, it would seem you are also blind.” He looked back to her illuminated face. “How can it be that you are alone? I am right beside you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Ivar had little patience for the discussions around the fire. The updates on Alfred’s army and their feeble attempt to push Ivar’s men back but he had heard little of the last few moments of back and forth.

Finally, making his way down the path to the tent, he wondered how she would be occupying her time. Perhaps, sitting by the fire having a glass of the mulled wine he brought back from a recent raid or maybe using his desk for beloved sketch work. Shuffling forward he was anxious to see her response to the small jar of skin oil he had left, placed inside a linen pouch, on the log table beside her bed. It smelt of roses and she had mentioned that the cooler air left her skin feeling dry. He savored receiving her humble appreciation for his simple offerings. It was nearly effortless to please her, keep her amenable. Sad really, he thought, as he picked up his pace, hurrying toward their tent, stopping at the entrance and pulling back the flap.

“Princess, should we…”

The tent was dark and the fire was out. Where was she, his mind raced, his chest filling with panic.

“Slave! Gussr!” he roared, realizing he had walked past an empty stool when entering. Stepping out of the tent, he hollered again for attention. The air was still and no one acknowledged his calls. Dread began to spread through his body. Where was Aethelswith? Snapping his head to look in all directions, he scanned the surrounding tents, finding the area void of men. With the evening meal already underway, no one was left mulling around. Lifting his ear, he listened for sounds above the moving air, searching for rushed voices, horses, metal colliding but all was quiet. Shuffling in the direction of his men, he stopped and turned, hearing the sound of her squealing voice.

“My Lord! My Lord!”

Glancing again towards the river, he heard her cries frenzied and distant, her voice muffled by the wind. Rushing forward, as rapidly as he could, his right hand dropped to his ax and his left squeezed his crutch. Nearly dropping to the cold earth to crawl, he saw her racing towards him. Hurrying, she clutched the hem of her dress in one hand and waved her other arm high above her head. Following behind was Gussr and Brana, moving at a less vigorous pace. Narrowing his eyes, Ivar scanned the area of the river beyond to find it empty of threats. 

“My Lord, look!” she cried.

In her hand, raised in the air to show him was a small fish, dangling on a string. Her face was lit bright and alive and she smiled with excitement. As she grew near, she stopped in her tracks at the look on Ivar’s face.

“WHAT do you think you are doing! he screamed loud enough to startle all three of them. Aethelswith’s eyes grew wide and her head shot back as if she had collided with a raging wind.

"You were not in the tent! You are always in the tent when I return. I thought someone had taken you. Gussr!” be barked a warning over Aethelswith’s shoulder. No trace of the previous smile left on Gussr’s now worried face.

“And you!” Ivar’s head turned to look at Brana. “I returned to a dark tent, an unlit fire and no evening meal! You will be punished for ignoring your dut…”

“Please, my Lord,” Aethelswith cut over him. “It is my fault. She stayed upon my request to show me how to clean the fish.”

“Quiet!” Ivar roared. “You, too, need to be reminded of your place. You have had too much ease of movement and it stops now. You will also be punished.”

Aethelswith’s chin began to tremble at the ferocity of his words and she dropped her gaze to the grass poking up between her leather shoes. Gussr stepped closer, standing directly behind her.

“Look at me,” he snapped, the tendons shifting below the skin of his jaw.

Glancing up, her round, soft blue eyes met his furious face just as a tear tipped over the edge and ran down her rosy cheek. He froze, his chest instantly tight, making him feel winded. His eyelids fluttered in an attempt to keep focus. In all this time, even when dragged from her carriage and her guards gutted, she had never shed a tear.

Looking passed her, he was struck by the concern in both Gussr and Brana’s expressions. Recomposing, he returned his gaze to Aethelswith’s. There was no fear there, it was devastation. Disappointment. Sadness. Clenching his hands into fists, he fought the urge to reach forward and comfort her.

“Leave us,” he ordered.

Racing away, Brana moved in the direction of the tent and Gussr made a motion to leave but stopped.

“The lady was only…” he started in Norse.

“You are dismissed until dawn,” Ivar cut him off sharply. Hesitating, Gussr slowly turned and started off up the gentle slope towards the evening meal.  
The rigidness in Ivar’s body softened when he saw that Aethelswith was still looking at the ground. Her anguish making him feel hollow. Had she compared him to her husband, he wondered? He should not care or doubt his treatment of her as she was a prisoner…a Saxon and he could not back down. Closing his eyes, his thoughts streamed faster and faster. He was being ridiculous.

“Princess,” he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I thought something happened to you.” His voice was low and steady. “That you had been taken, or attacked.” A pressure squeezed his chest as if his leathers were bound too tight. Clearing his throat, he swallowed hard, feeling out of his element but he would not, could not, appear weak.

Still not looking up, her hands were clasped, holding onto the string, with the small fish hanging against her skirt.

“I am sorry.”

GODS! Gritting his teeth, he looked up to the darkening sky, shaking his head, disgusted by his feebleness.

Clearing his throat, “You are of no value to me harmed.”

GODS! He cringed again, rolling his eyes at his graceless attempt of recovery. Shifting awkwardly, his legs ached from standing and all he wanted was for the atmosphere to return to how it usually was between them.

Exhaling loudly, he tried again. “I can show you how to clean the fish…if you would allow me to.”

Wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress, she gave a slight nod, continuing to look at the ground. Lifting his arm, he indicated for her to lead. Stepping forward, she made her way up the path, a wave of relief washed over him as he moved behind her petite frame, back towards their tent.  
—-  
An awkward tutorial. A knife too large for a tiny hand. An inexperienced teacher. A tender pupil. And finally, a deep gash to the inside of a thumb.

The knife bounced off the edge of the table and into the grass as the first drop of blood splattered into the opaque eye of the fish below. Grabbing her wrist, Ivar pulled her hand up to his face and pushed her thumb between his lips and into his mouth. Not able to shift her gaze from his lips, her eyelids softened, as his tongue slid over the stinging slit in her skin. Her own lips parted, and she let out a slow, shaky breath. Heat bubbled up through her body and she felt the flight of a thousand moths in her chest. Swallowing with difficulty she told herself not to look into his eyes…but she did. His piercing blue eyes were dark, a richer blue than she had ever seen with an expression of sincerity his open face.

Slowly, he pulled her thumb out of his mouth, her hand tucked in his, and pressed it to his chest. Warmth radiated through his brown tunic and he lowered his gaze down to her gently parted lips; his head shifting forward slightly before hesitating. Looking back into her eyes, he did not move.

Do it, she thought, do it. There are countless reasons why I will not resist.

The tent flap opened.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk blurted out abruptly stopping, as his eyes darting between them. Frowning, he seemed puzzled by their closeness

Reacting first, Aethelswith pulled her hand back from Ivar’s and walked to her bed, dropping to sit on the edge, and keeping her back to the them.

“The scout has returned.”

Ivar shot Hvitserk a look of warning to not utter another word. Glancing at the back of her, he grabbed his crutch and limped out of the tent, Hvitserk trailed behind.

Bringing her thumb to her mouth, she rubbed it across her top lip before slipping it inside, searching for his taste. Staring her eyes were lost in the flickering candle sitting on the wood round beside her bed. The tent flap opened and she spun anticipating Ivar. Instead, Brana entered carrying a bowl of water and a bundle of white cloth clearly following orders given by him. Sitting down on the bed, she gently pulled Aethelswith’s hand, tipping it up to the light to look at the wound. Nodding as if seeing the answer to a riddle, she dipped a cloth into the water and softly started to dab the pad of Aethelswith’s thumb. Rinsing the cloth left the water a shade of pink and once the blood was clear, Brana wrapped a gauze-like cloth around it, moving tactfully as if she was tending to the most sacred duty. Once done, Aethelswith lifted her bandaged hand, surveying the result, glancing at Brana’s earnest face. She burst out laughing and Brana immediately joined. It was ridiculous and enormous, more bandage than an amputation would have required.

Their laughter dwindled, trailing off and Brana grasped Aethelswith’s hand. Looking straight into her eyes, Brana nodded with understanding, and Aethelswith bit the inside of her cheek to steady her emotions.

“Be careful,” Brana whispered, her eyes darting to the tent door. They sat quietly for a moment, with Brana’s face looking worried. “The Prince has never seemed captivated by women the way other men are.” She paused running her finger over Aethelswith’s bandage, smoothing an edge. “Six years, I have been his personal thrall, and not once have I seen him take a slave to bed or one of the shieldmaidens who are visibility taken with him.” Her eyes widened emphasizing her point, “and there are a number, particularly, now that he is the head of the army.” She looked down again to their clasped hands seemingly lost for the right words. “No, you have woken something inside of him. Perhaps, something he never knew existed.” She looked back up to Aethelswith. “Tread carefully sweet girl. He is a clever man but impulsive and one who refuses to lose.”  
Aethelswith’s lashes fluttered and her head shook in confusion, processing her friend’s words.

“I am his bartering pawn. He thinks I am a silly princess,” she uttered quietly.

Leaning closer, Brana eyed her, squeezing her hand. “He thinks the sun rises for you.”


	9. Chapter 9

The wood on the fire crackled while the smoke and flames surged up toward the night sky and the flickering light bounced off the faces of the gathered warriors making them look even more brutal. Nursing his cup of ale, Ivar was avoiding his return to the tent. He had turned away the King's scout for a second time, refusing to respond to Alfred's request for his terms.

Taking a small drink, he only partially listened to the battle stories being shared by his men. His body was stiff and his mind was entirely consumed with the outline of her pale lips. Closing his eyes, her radiant heart-shaped face was there, along with her sincere, soft blue eyes that seemed to twinkle when she told him a story of her childhood. Inhaling deeply, he let out a long sigh thinking about her flawless skin, wondering if it would taste how it looked, like smooth honey. Growling under his breath, he attracted the attention of the men, making him shift restlessly in his chair.

He wished, as he did on many occasions, that he could speak to his mother. Often just the look in her eyes used to tell him all he needed to know. She would have liked Aethelswith; her beauty, her curiosity, her quiet strength, her sense of duty and sacrifice. The two, without question, had similarities, he thought, and hadn't his mother endured a life of similar suffering?

"So, brother, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" Hvitserk asked, looking smug.

Ignoring him, Ivar looked into the flame as if he had not heard making Hvitserk let out a chuckle.

"What is troubling you?" he prodded, sitting directly across the flames from Ivar. "Running out of reasons to reject the King's messenger?"

Ivar's expression tensed, but he did not bite.

"Lover's quarrel?" Hvitserk jabbed and Ivar let out a high-pitched laugh, his face turning harsh and his eyes narrowing at Hvitserk.

"What is worrying you brother?" Ivar crooned in a smooth, threatening tone. "Realizing you have no place here? Hmm? Understanding that, without father, you have no importance?"

Acquiescing, Hvitserk said nothing, taking a long pull from his cup and glancing at the surrounding men. The men started to rise, some simulating yawns and wandered away from the warmth of the fire, looking to retire anywhere but near the tension.

Fumbling for his crutch, Ivar pushed himself up and headed for the path. Trudging toward the tent, he noticed a small flicker of light through the canvas, coming from the far corner. Nodding to Gussr, who sat on a stool outside the door, Ivar silently took back the charge of the Princess. Nodding in response, Gussr rose and walked away into the shifting night.

Lowering himself onto the stool, he removed his braces, tucking them inside the flap of the tent. Dropping his chin to his chest, he exhaled slowly, apprehension washing over him like a cold settling dew. How absurd, he thought, Ivar the Boneless, nervous following what exactly? Holding the Princess's hand? Cleaning the blood from her thumb with his mouth? Scoffing, he shook his head thinking how Hvitserk would likely have a shieldmaiden riding his face by now.

Staring out into the darkness, he had to remind himself that he was a ruthless Viking and the favoured son of Ragnar. He had avenged his father after all and killed countless Saxons and was already a common name across all of Scandinavia. He was feared by those unfavored enough to face him in battle; feared even by those on his side of the battle...except her... Aethelswith. She may have been afraid, taken hostage by an enemy of her kingdom, but she had never cowered from him.

Closing his eyes, he recalled his men's heckles and jeers the day she arrived and first stood before him. They leered and made crude gestures about her body, describing what they would do if given the chance. In that instant, he knew after just one encounter, she could be under no one's charge but his own. The senior Gussr was the one exception, and Ivar was not blind to his sentiment toward her. No, she was far too captivating to risk to another. Too rare, too extraordinary and it made him wonder if there could not be one thing or one person in the merciless world unspoiled and unharmed, even cherished.

Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, dropping from the stool and pushing through the flap. Looking over to her side, he saw that she was asleep, lying with her back towards the wall with locks of wild, warm golden hair spread in every direction.

Only a small candle burned on the log table beside his bed. Nearly burnt to the bottom, its light was fading quickly. Moving to his bed, he crawled in leaving his clothes on and pulled his legs over to lie on his side, facing her. Within moments the glow of the candle faded to black, leaving them in darkness. His eyes started to adjust and he listened to her soft steady breathing, beginning to inhale and exhale in time with her.

\---

Standing in front of the desk, her tiny hand was held in his and his lips were around her thumb, his tongue gliding gently back and forth over the opening of her cut. It tasted sweet to him, the perfect mixture of flesh and metallic with a hint of bitter coal. Looking at her, he savoured the feel of her skin against his tongue and the soft, surrendered look on her face. Chin subtly lifted, peering up at him with her beautiful mouth parted slightly. His eyes zeroed in on that small part of her throat that dipped every time she swallowed.

Shifting on his feet, he felt an unfamiliar tug, stirring his senses and sending heat coursing down his limbs. Bringing her hand to his chest, he pressed it hard against his body wanting her so badly to hear the words he could not say; take it, he thought, just take it. Take my heart.

Needing more, he leaned toward her, pausing to search her face for any flinch or sign of hesitation. With a racing heart, he tilted closer and carefully pressed his lips to hers, exhaling shakily against her mouth. A sensation of arrival swept over him as their lips adjusted and she pressed gently back. Breathing in her warmth, he slowly slid his tongue out, sweeping it over her supple lower lip, sampling his welcome. Opening further to him, she allowed their tongues to meet and swirl softly.

Gods, if ever a person could die from a kiss, he silently exclaimed, as a surge of desire rushed through his core causing his manhood to twitch.

Reaching forward he pulled her by her lower back and hugged her to his front, breaking the kiss just so he looked at her again. Overwhelmed by their closeness, his mind spun, her smell, her sweetness, her lips red from their contact, everything about the woman was perfect. He felt intoxicated, enchanted.

Straightening, he shuffled backward with his crutch under one arm and ungracefully fell to the bed.

"Will you sit with me?" he whispered, holding his hand up for her to take.

Clutching it, she lifted the front of her dress and lowered herself down, placing a knee on either side to straddle his lap. His eyes shot wide, mesmerized by her boldness and he leaned back, grasping fistfuls of the furs to stop himself from grabbing hold of her. Gods, her body; her tiny, luscious, perfect body that she willingly pressed to his. He felt bewitched, under a spell.

"Can I kiss you again?" he asked, unable to hide the insecurity in his voice.

Their mouths met again, moving faster and with deeper need. Small, breathless sounds slipped from each of them before she pulled back and looked into his eyes.

"You can touch me," she whispered, her face looking serious.

Responding, he straightened and brought his hands to her knees, fumbling with the hem of her dress. Sliding below the fabric, he stopped at the feeling of her warm, smooth skin. A slight whimper escaped her as she spread her knees further apart. Pushing his hands up her thighs, he found her utterly bare under her dress and grabbed her round hips in his large, worn hands. Was he doing this properly, his mind raced, wondered if this is what she intended when offering her permission.

Squeezing the flesh of her backside, she responded by grinding down against his groin making him hiss through clenched teeth. Lifting his hands to her shoulders, he traced his fingers along her collarbone and tilted forward to he kiss her again, pulling her lower lip with his. Do it, he urged himself, embrace this fleeting moment, this closeness that may never come again.

Tucking his fingers into the neck of her dress, he pulled the loose fabric down her arms uncovering the skin of her elegant shoulders and part of her chest. Stilling, he kept his mouth on hers, waiting for resistance. Instead, she pulled away and pushed the straps of the dress down her arms, exposing her full, pear-shaped breasts. His eyes dragged down her front, noticing that her nipples, hard from the cool, were the same shade of peach as her soft lips. I want these to feed my children one day, he thought as he leaned forward, taking one in his mouth and firmly cupping the other. Pushing into his touch, her head tipped back and she moaned, her breath starting to pant.

"Let me taste you again," he whispered against the skin of her throat.

Bringing her lips back to his, he swirled his tongue with hers, both hands on her chest, her rocking slowly urging him forward. Dropping his hands, he pushed the fabric of her dress up her thighs and grabbed her round bottom. Lowering his mouth to her neck, he lapped and sucked her warm skin drawing out the scent of the rose oil he had gifted her. Rolling her hips harder, she picked up the pace, causing him to groan against her collarbone and push his growing bulge up toward her.

Running his hands up her ribcage, down her back, she froze as his hands skimmed over the scarred, disfigured surface. Pulling her lips from his, she looked away.

"You are perfect, my sweet," he breathed, the corners of his eyes scrunching with emotion. "Every part of you, even these," he slid his hands up, touching the scars.

Her brows lifted and she seemed to study his face, gasping softly when he slammed his lips to hers again. Not holding back, she ground down on his hard cock; Ivar growling, struck by the fact that he had never before experienced this, almost painful, straining in his pants.

Returning his hands to her bottom, he reached further into the join between her cheeks, following the warmth and connecting his fingers with the dripping slick of her folds.

Grunting loudly, almost a shout, he pressed his clothed cock up against her centre, her bare core grinding fast against his pants. A strained rhythm began, her breath fast and her hips gently bucking as his fingers slipped and swirled over the back of her wet entrance. His breath became ragged and a growing tingle began deep in his loins; a rising pressure with a wave of heat building from the base of his manhood and spreading down his legs.

As if in a trance, he could not stop moving against her, his bucking growing frantic as he chased the unfamiliar itch. Her moans and cries became loud and he suddenly felt suspended, disconnected from his mind, followed by a strange, warm release. Breath held, he shuddered violently before dropping his forehead to her chest.

"What was that?" he heard himself say, unaware that he had spoken.

\---

With a jolt, his eyes opened and he lifted his head from the awkward position of sleeping on his stomach. Snapping his head over to look, he saw that Aethelswith lay asleep on her bed, her face toward the tent wall. Shifting, he glanced down at his bed, painfully aware that he had been rutting his crotch again his furs. Gods, he cried to himself, wondering if he had woken her. Had he been pathetically humping his bed in front of her? Worse, had he called out her name?

Looking back over, he listened to her steady breathing, thinking that she was the type of person who would feign sleep just to spare him embarrassment.

The sun was rapidly rising and he could see the glow of first light through the canvas. Shutting his eyes, he dropped his face down into the pillow, dreading the day, but taking some relief that she did, in fact, appear to be asleep.

Pulling himself off the bed, he felt the stickiness in his breeches and crawled fast through the tent and flap and out into the morning. Aethelswith opened her eyes and lifted her head, watching as the tent flap swung closed behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

The heavy fog that surrounded Winchester castle was so dense it concealed the first light, making the morning bells seem out of place. The chamber was dim with sparse light coming through the diamond mullions and the warmth from the stone fireplace barely reached the men gathered around the table.

They sat in silence, strained silence. Broken only by the scuffing sounds of Aethelred's boot on the gritty floor and Burgred's thick fingers tapping on the table. The fire crackled and the resignation obvious in King's posture felt louder than the tension. Slouching deeply in his chair, Alfred, absently, studied the skin on the back of his clasped hands.

"He has no intention of negotiating with us. I do not understand the purpose of this kidnapping." Aethelred cut through the stiff atmosphere, raising both hands.

"There is a plan," Alfred replied without looking up. "He is not a man to act without meaning. There is something he wants." Nodding softly, his voice was muted as if he was speaking to himself. "We must wait."

"While Aethelswith sits and rots in the encampment?" Aethelred scoffed.

"Brother," Alfred straightened and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. "I want her returned safely. You must know this, but we can not be foolish." His face was pensive with wariness showing around his eyes.

Each night, he would rest his head on his lavish goose feather pillow, sick with thoughts of his sister's treatment. Conjuring images of where she might be forced to sleep while he lay in luxury. Was she hungry or cold, injured, he wondered, worrying if the heathens acted out their vengeance towards him, by forcing themselves upon her. His mind would race until he felt ill. Come morning, his reasonable self would admonish some of the fear, remembering the young, intelligent, prince from all those years ago. He too had been young, very young. Since that time, the crippled prince had accomplished more than so many infamous Vikings. Alfred sensed, had to pray, that Ivar was a true gamesman, one unlikely to tip his favour with carelessness or brute treatment of Aethelswith. His belief in his sister also provided a sliver of comfort. Her intelligence and iron nerve would serve her in any volatile circumstance as would her good sense, he prayed.

"It seems impossible," Burgred blared, finally joining the discussion. "The time for exchanging terms has passed. Our attempts to penetrate their parameter guard failed as did our blockade to impede their river access to Abingdon. They ransacked it! Their offensive strike was bloody merciless. We cannot allow them to advance further into Wessex." Clearing his throat, he shrugged. "Or Kingdoms north of Wessex."

Pressing his lips together, Alfred all but rolled his eyes. His disenchantment for Burgred was clear as he listened to the man rattle on, knowing there was nothing more important to him than becoming king of Mercia. Nothing.

"We have sacrificed nearly two chapters of our best men to those Northmen animals. Will be far more if they move on Winchester," Burgred continued, oblivious to the discomfort of the other two men. "Our attempts to rescue were fruitless."

"The strategy to resolve through force may still be a possibility," Aethelred interrupted. His strength and value always demonstrated through battle. Less often with strategy and politics and he, unlike his brother admittedly, was short on Devine patience.

"Well," Burgred shifted uneasily in his chair. "Perhaps, we must consider that the cost of retrieval is too great," pausing, he ran a hand down the front of his face, "and accept the loss... for Wessex." Burgred shook his head, sighing deeply, averting his eyes from the brothers. "Face a most unpleasant truth."

The brother's eyes darted to Burgred. Alfred's solemn face giving little insight to his opinion but Aethelred was clearly angry.

"This is Aethelswith we are talking about," Aethelred spat.

"The Princess of Wessex. Our sister. Your wife!" Alfred interjected. "And the future queen of Mercia." Shifting he pushed his back against his chair, his hands squeezing the armrest. "You speak of her with such little emotion."

Burgred's eyes flicked between the two brothers. "Is it not the true mark of a nobleman to respond to hardship with unwavering fortitude."

"How stoic of you," Alfred replied.

"She has likely been defiled. Damaged. Devalued!" Burgred sneered defensively.

"There is nothing those barbarians could do to her that would devalue her," the rosiness in Alfred's cheeks began to mirror the red apples sitting in the bowl on the table. "Prince Ivar is a brilliant strategist. I, we, must trust that he would not be so short sited as to mistreat her and undermine his position to negotiate." Turning, Alfred looked toward the open cut-outs in the stone wall. "He will eventually state terms. There is an air about his wait that," closing his eyes, he shook his head, "feels personal. But, let me be unequivocally clear," he opened his eyes, and looked cooly at Burgred, "there is no crown for you in Mercia without Aethelswith as queen."

"Any concession you make with this heathen is a glaring sign that you can be manipulated. That he can put you on your knees by playing familiar," Burgred said, leaning forward. "You bend to any of his demands and Wessex and Mercia, even Northumbria will be vulnerable."

"Enough," Alfred interjected. "You will excuse us now. My brother and I must speak on the matter."

Burgred, looked to Aethelred, his friend of nearly twenty years, seeking support against the King's dismissal. Gazing into his cup, Aethelred said nothing.

With a dour face, Burgred pushed his chair back across the stone floor and stood, bowing stiffly to Alfred before walking out. Alfred and Aethelred sat in silence until the chamber door thudded closed.

"Send another scout. Inform the prince that we are eager for terms."

"Alfred, wait, please listen. I know you do not care for Burgred. He..." Aethelred teetered his head, "lacks diplomacy and is, certainly, an acquired taste but he is brave and has fought for many years for this family."

"You are correct, I do not care for him. I wish I had the authority at the time to prevent his union to Aethelswith. Mother was too...determined," his voice trailed off.

"But he is not entirely wrong, Alfred. You must admit, if we bend, we are offering this kingdom. Consider Wessex."

"Aethelred! You do not need to remind your me to consider Wessex. Unless the players change, the game remains the same. I will see Aethelswith returned safely. Now, send another scout."

\---

She hopped and kicked and raised her left arm into the air with a small grunt. Stepping backward, she slid quickly to the side.

"If you are attempting to seduce me with a form of exotic dance, I must tell you that you have the grace of a turkey," Ivar said in a flat voice, sitting on his stool, unclasping his braces.

"Your humour is endless, my Lord."

"Woman, what are you doing?" Ivar's head was tipped down towards his stubborn buckle, his eyes tilted up to her.

"Endeavouring, rather failing, to usher a field mouse from the tent."

"How Christian."

Not responding, instead, she walked to the open stove and grabbed a small shovel from the iron bucket.

"To be afraid of a mouse," he continued.

"Ha," she quipped. "I sleep with Ivar The Boneless. You believe I would fear a mouse?" Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes gave away her amusement.

"Why are you such a deranged person, princess?"

"Only you would think me deranged for showing compassion to a mouse," she looked over to see him dramatically roll his eyes. Pausing, she studied his expression.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked, the ease gone from his voice.

"You were rolling your eyes so violently, my Lord, I thought, perhaps, you might tip backward," she let out a soft laugh.

"How witty," he clucked. "Do I need to remind you of who you are addressing in such a way?"

"You do not." Stopping, she turned fully to face him.

At a glance, Ivar could tell that she was trying not to smirk.

"I would not want to risk the punishment of being held captive," she added.

Grunting, Ivar bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling. "You are a very annoying person."

"And you..." she stopped, her eyelids fluttered for a moment before she looked up towards the ceiling.

"What? Finish what you were going to say," his voice was suddenly stern.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I did want to ask you a question," her eyes dropped to her hands as she fumbled with the tie of her dark green robe. Ivar saw a familiar flash of emotion which often accompanied those instances at night when they would share stories and she would burst into giggles. Guilt. Guilt or shame, he was not entirely sure. Some variation of remorse, he suspected, for being so at playful with her enemy.

Nodding, he indicated for her to continue. His face lifted as if waiting on her next word.

"If it would not be a burden, I was wondering if you would teach me about your Gods."

"Princess, I cannot imagine you want to convert?" His head tilted to one side.

Her eyes flared, "No!" she raised a hand as if to motion him to stop. "No, no. I wish to better understand."

Seeing her standing before him, earnestly waiting for his response; he had to take a breath and steady his voice. Curb his delight.

"We will begin with the All Father," he nodded, looking down at the table, beginning to gather the papers in front of him. "There is much to learn. I hope you have the time," he jabbed, sarcastically.

"That is up to you, my Lord," she answered quietly and his eyes shot up to hers.

There was no sparkle in her soft blue eyes as was the custom when they would banter. Instead she looked solemn. Not wanting the atmosphere to shift, he pretended not to notice.

"Come, sit, we will begin with Bor and Bestla and how everything we know of this world was created from death."

"I think I will get ready for bed now. Perhaps, tomorrow?"

"So early?" He sounded disappointed. "You will not have any food first?"

Shaking her head, she filled a bowl of water and collected a fresh washcloth from the stool beside the tub and began to wash her face. Such a personal act to witness, Ivar thought. It reminded him of the days lounging on his mother's bed watching her evening custom. Rinsing off both the grime of Kattegat's streets along with her brave face. If only he knew then that one day, soon after, he would be without her. Always expressive with his love for his mother, he would have still savoured and valued their time together more. Would have memorized every detail of her.

Scanning Aethelswith's figure, his eyes settled on her hand, watching how she submerged the cloth entirely in the bowl, wringing it out, careful not to allow a single drop of water to fall outside the rim. Dipping her head forward to meet her hands with the cloth, she carefully wiped her face starting under her eyes and ending with soft strokes down her throat. Her thick wild hair hung, loosely plated down her back, resting over the dark robe, tied around her small waist. His eyes did not miss how the synched tie accentuated the curve of her hips and the round swell of her behind.

Letting out a small sigh, he wondered if there would ever be a time when he could not recall the nuisances of her movements. Would it even be possible to forget, he wondered? Would he, one day, desperately want to? Closing his eyes, he inhaled, picturing his future self, sitting on Kattegat's throne, surrounded by his people but daydreaming of her. How each night, she would meticulously straighten the furs on her bed before climbing in. How she would lie flat on her back, eyes closed with lips moving in silent words to her God. Would that be his life, he wondered, clenching his fists tight. Still...he must soak it in. Burn it into his mind. All of her.

Turning, she caught him watching her from where he sat at the desk.

Clearing his throat, he looked down to his papers and shook his head, uttering, "very, very annoying."


	11. Chapter 11

"I am to be the Queen of Mercia," she said raising her chin, her voice feigning importance. "My husband has had his eye on the title of king his entire life," she added flatly.

"I will take Mercia one day," he said, looking up from the map before him. "And all that is in it."

"Will you remember me, my Lord?" she asked, the soft candlelight making her eyes twinkle. 

"I will remember you," his gaze lingered, causing her face to warm.

"I should have refrained from telling you. I foresee it," her tone was now playful. "Your army would storm the walls, you would hack your way inside the doors of the parish and come face to face with me."

"Continue," he flicked his hand, his eyes slowly scanning her mouth and throat, the dip of skin between her collar bones peeking through her loosely wrapped shawl.

"You would flee for the hills of course," she laughed, "faced with me as a captive. Twice."

"I flee from nothing," he sniped, amusement clear in his eyes.

"Oh no? Even a princess who is a very annoying person?" she imitated him sarcastically, shooting him a grin. Taking a drink from her cup, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to cut the sour taste of the ale.

Taking a deep drink, Ivar could not help but smile. Returning his eyes to his papers, he tensed and looked back to Aethelswith, tilting his head forward toward her.

"Never hide in a church," his tone was serious and his expression hard. The muted light making his chiseled features appear harsh. "Never flee to a Church. Do you understand?"

Glancing down at the table, she could see that his hand was squeezing his horn of ale. Looking back up, she nodded her agreement.

"Tell me," he ordered. "That you understand."

"Yes, I understand," she answered quietly.

They sat in silence, both distracted by their own thoughts, Ivar staring down at his desk. The ease evaporating quickly from the space. Shifting uncomfortably on his stool, she noticed a twinge of strain flash across Ivar's face. She had never asked about his legs; the pain he was obviously in. The torment they that they clearly caused him and she never would. Scanning his features, she noticed how smooth and perfect the skin of his face was, save for the small scar on his right cheek. Her eyes dropped to the gentle lift of his upper lip, just below his nose. Who would he be, she wondered, without those defective legs? Not nearly the man sitting across from her now. Those hobbled legs were, surely, the foundation of his ruthless drive for reputation and success. Acceptance, more so, she thought. Who would he be, she asked herself, if the world had not instilled that sticky layer of shame.

"People are not that different, you know. Regardless of who they are. Their titles, religions even."

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "You think like a child. Look at us."

Finishing her drink, Aethelswith tilted her head in contemplation.

"People are a result of their rearing, their circumstances, and experiences. Hardships and pain. Joy." Pausing, she looked back to Ivar, waiting for him to tease, but continued seeing that he was listening. "Would we be any different, if we had lived the life of the other?" she continued without waiting for a response. "Dreams and desires belong to all people my Lord... and shame." Pressing her lips together, she smiled flatly. "We cannot forget about shame."

Lifting the jug, Ivar refilled Aethelswith's horn and then his own.

"What do you know of hardship and pain?" he froze, jug still suspended over his cup as the image of her vile husband and her disfigured back came to mind. Placing the jug down, he stared into the dark contents of his cup unsure of what to say. 

"I know more about those things than I do joy and desire." Sipping her ale, she glanced up to him as if waiting.

"Tell me about your shame then?" he asked, hoping to alter the course from his comment.

"You will keep my confidence?" she asked quietly, thinking what a perverse question to pose to her captor. Absurdly, she felt there was a sort of privacy between them and the outside world allowing her to admit things to him that she would not even to her brothers. Not a soul would ever know what they shared. There was freedom in that, she thought, even if it existed solely in her mind.

Instinctually, Ivar wanted to scoff. Wanted to tell her he did not care enough to repeat her words.

"I will tell no one." He watched her thoughts dance across her face. Worry, relief, sorrow. "No one will learn your secrets from me."

"I have never kissed a man," Aethelswith whispered as if she was surrounded by hundreds of people and only wanting his ear to catch her words.

Jerking his head to one side, his brows furrowed in confusion, and he took a deep swig from his cup. "But you are married."

"I am," she replied still not looking at him, keeping her eyes on the table.

"Unbelievable," he waved dismissively assuming he was being mocked. 

"We have never shared chambers," she added, her eyes flicking up to his for an instant. 

Taking a drink from her cup, she wiped a small drop slipping down her chin with the inside of her wrist.

"What of your wedding? You must have kissed at your ceremony?" Ivar prodded.

"No, that is not part of a Christian ceremony."

"That is absurd," he drained his cup, grabbing the jug and refilling both of their drinks.

"Christians do not consummate their marriages either?"

Not responding, she just looked down into the full cup held in both of her hands.

Grimacing, a shot of regret moved through him. Worry, she would retreat from the discussion. Should he ask more questions, he wondered, watching her avoid his attention, not lifting her face to meet his.

"I have only ever been with one woman," he blurted. "A thrall all of my brothers' bed." Gods, he thought, holding his breath. What was he doing?

Looking up, her eyes widened but she glanced away quickly, taking another sip from her cup.

"You are the only man, other than family, that I have ever been in a room alone with... unchaperoned." Her eyes returned to his. "Let alone shared a tent with for over a hundred days." Raising her eyebrows, she took another sip.

"How many men have seen you in your nightclothes?" Ivar took a pull from his cup.

She looked up quickly but glanced back down to her hands. "One."

Ivar furrowed his brows. "Not even your husband? Only me?"

She said nothing, her face looked tight. 

"My first time, with the thrall, was not a success...because of this," he gestured with his left hand to his lower body.

Just stop, he blasted himself! Stop! Had he truly just admitted that? Confessed to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen that he is not capable of being a man. The last thing he would ever want her to know. Gods, he stifled a groan.

Staring at him, her expression was even. He searched her face for signs of amusement or repulsion or pity but nothing.

"My husband took me by surprise. By force." She took another drink. "Brutally, and with an audience of three of his friends. It was in a corridor outside the kitchen just feet from our wedding banquet where everyone was dining." She paused, tucking wisps of hair behind her ear that had fallen free from her braid. "I do not think of it often," she swallowed and fumbled with the shall around her shoulders. "But occasionally I hear their laughter... in my dreams."

For the first time since she was dragged into the camp, Ivar saw that her eyes were dull. A spear of rage hit his chest and he squeezed his mug so hard it exploded in his hand. Liquid spilled over his knuckles and onto the table, running off into the grass below. His jaw clenched and the skin around his eyes began to burn. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab her small frame and hug her to his body. How could anyone treat a woman like her, like that? his mind reeled.

"I will kill him!" Ivar roared. "I will cut off his head and piss down his throat. I will inflict the worst pain that has ever been inflicted on any man," he shouted. 

Perfectly still, Aethelswith did not react, did not flinch, or move a muscle. How could she have admitted such a thing, she asked herself, feeling detached from her body? Blinking rapidly, she tried but could not focus.

"Why did Alfred not do something? Punish him? He obviously tortures you. How can he let it continue?" Ivar seethed. Leaning forward, he planted his hands down on the wooden table. "What kind of brother is he? What kind of king?"

"Alfred does not know," she whispered, her voice sounding frail.

Rising, she stood and leaned forward, placing her own hands onto the table to steady herself. Gazing at her, Ivar's face softened, seeing her face so close. Straightening, she turned and moved toward her bed, dropping her shawl at the beside. Pulling down the furs, she crawled in onto her sie, her back almost touching the canvas wall. The dim light, illuminated her blank face, casting shadows over her eyes, making her looked haunted. 

"You see, my Lord," she spoke just above a whisper. "We have both known shame."

Breathing loudly in and out of his nose, Ivar grabbed the edge of the table, flipping it on its side. Papers and chess pieces flew through the air and the candle pitched, casting the tent into darkness. Dropping to the ground, he dragged himself to her bed, perching on the edge. Grunting, he wanted so desperately to embrace her, wrap his arms around her, cut her open from her soft throat to her tender belly, climb inside, and lay beside her heart. Instead, he pulled the furs up to cover her shoulder and slid his hand across the sheet, stopping just shy of touching her hand. It was not an embrace, it was not a caress or a physical act of affection but to Aethelswith, his hand jetting out toward her's was everything.

"Sleep woman. I will sit here."

Listened to his breathing, she did what he said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this is the first fanfic I have ever written and I am learning as I go. Thanks so much for reading.

"I will trade Aethelswith for Lord Burgred."

"We call her Aethelswith now?" Hvitserk asked looking up with a mouth full of chicken.

Grimacing, Ivar said nothing, looking back down to the ax in his hand.

"For what purpose, Ivar? You cannot believe he is going to get us territory?"

A smile crept over Ivar's face and he looked back up, cocking his head to one side.

"No, but our men must....for now," he shook his head, "You know nothing of negotiations."

"I know that you no longer dine with your men. You retire early and squirrel away in your tent each evening with candles burning late." Pausing, he gulped from his horn. "You race back to camp as quickly as you can anytime you are away, even designate men to handle tasks you would have never trusted to anyone before. What is going on?"

"Careful!" Ivar snapped his head up. "I command this army Hvitserk. It involves study and strategic planning. Your little brain could not begin to fathom the intricacies involved. Do you think the leader of the Heathen Army must also hunt to feed his warriors? Hmm? Go on every raid? Am I charged with those tasks as well?" Lifting his ax, he pointed it at Hvitserk as if to scold. "I will not be questioned by you."

"You are enamored by her, Ivar."

"I am not!" he spat.

"I understand," Hvitserk carried on. "She is a rare beauty. Gorgeous! With a figure begging to be..."

Swoosh!

A rush of wind; Hvitserk felt the ax fly, narrowly missing his left temple, embedding deeply into the wooden post of the rain canopy. Knowing Ivar never missed, it was a warning to silence him and he only hoped Ivar did not want the kill of yet another brother as a stain on his legacy.

"Leave," Ivar ordered, running his hand over his dark slicked-back hair.

Glaring at Ivar, Hvitserk trudged away, his anger obvious in his expression stiff movements.

Shifting his focus, Ivar picked at the callused skin that ran along the inside of his finger. He felt strange. Jittery. Was he getting sick, he wondered? Leaning his head back against the tall wooden chair, he closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. Her face was there, imprinted on his mind...as usual. How could such a small woman make him feel so weak? Holding her ransom was proving to be capricious; a distraction. She seemed content to simply sit quietly across from him drawing childish pictures or playing games.

Pulling his legs to one side, he sunk deeper in the chair, elbow propped on an armrest and chin resting on his hand. Still...she was unlike anyone he had ever met. The corners of his mouth lifted into a subtle smile thinking of the way she would laugh at her own witty remarks. The thought made him sigh loudly. He could tell her things, personal things and she never wavered. She possessed a gentleness that made him feel...like a man. His legs and fractured form never an unwelcome barrier. Groaning under his breath, he rolled his eyes. Did she make him feel week or strong? Would his mind ever know peace again? Perhaps after she was traded, he thought, then he could return to his life before her. Wait..his brows furrowed, how was his life before her?

Grunting, he barked at a passing thrall for a cup of mead, settling back into his thoughts. That was the scale of her disruption. He could not even picture his life before her. Who did he used to speak to? Scoffing, he took a deep drink from his now full cup of ale. He felt anxious. Flustered. Pulling himself straight in his chair, he grabbed his crutch off to find the healer; get a tincture or some remedy to cure this illness in his mind.

\---

She sketched, sketched and sketched, partly to pass the time and partly as an outlet for her fixation. The etching sounds on the nearly thin paper did little to chase the itch in her mind... her heart even. She was conflicted. Deeply conflicted. After being captured and detained in his tent, she used to devise ways of escaping his gaze, now, she never wanted his eyes to leave her. Shaking her head, she studied the drawing before her. Those hands. Those enormous, powerful, weathered hands...what they were capable of. What violence and death they had inflicted. Shuddering, she remembered the whisper of a touch on her back so impossibly gentle. She should be mortified by those hands, yet, looking at them now, perfectly reflected in her charcoal sketch, just made her souls say yes.

She was no longer capable of controlling her thoughts; the reprehensible, unchristian, intrusive images. Surrendering to those feelings then, for just an instant, she allowed them to flow like a current through her body. He would never know, he could not see into the depth of her mind. Could he, she wondered? Of course not. She would carry her affection for him through to the end of her life, a secret, muted, burning torch. It was simply her inexperience that left her vulnerable. Her husband's mistreatment and Ivar's protective way of dominating her. He was her source of survival in captivity after all and she was no stranger to dark men, but...unlike her husband, Ivar never left her afraid. She felt cherished, she felt companionship. She felt safe.

Hearing the rattle of his braces, she straightened, quickly reshuffling her papers and placed a recently started bird at the top. Crossing the tent without a word, he dropped down onto the stool across from her, wincing as he loosened his buckles. Noticing how his jaw was pushed forward, she assumed his mood to be salty.

"Your hair is loose," he said when he looked up, clearly surprised, his eyes raking over her long wavy hair that hung over her shoulders and down her sides.

Glancing up to him, she saw that he was staring at her as if they had not spent the last months confined together in close quarters, as if he was caught off-guard. Raised brows and softly parted lips like he had forgotten her appearance and was seeing her for the first time.

"I left it loose. It takes so long to dry braided. The days are nice now but the evenings are still cool." Looking back to her work, she stifled a smile. "I did not want to catch a chill."

Turning his head, Ivar glanced towards the undisturbed tub; the curtain drawn back and neatly tied.

"When did you bathe?"

"I did not bathe." She looked up from the dark raven beginning to take form on her paper.

"Then why was your hair wet?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

"I went swimming."

"You what!"

Aethelswith's eyes widened.

"I went...."

"I heard you! With whom?" he snapped.

"Brana and Hilde and...

"Was Gussr there?"

"Of course."

"I did not give you permission to swim. You are not here to play with slaves. They are not your ladies in....whatever you Christians call them." Shaking his head, his mouth fell open as if in disbelief. "The river has strong currents now that the level is high. You could have been swept away and drowned and then I would have put up with you for this long for nothing."

"My father may have focussed his efforts on my brothers, but he did see that I was taught how to properly swim. Besides, Gussr was there. Looking like he might lay an egg, mind you, but Hvitserk is a strong swimmer..."

"What!" Ivar shouted. "My brother? He swam with you?" Ivar's hands clenched into fists.

Blinking quickly, Aethelswith strained to hold his gaze, his eyes conveying his anger. "Well," she started cautiously. "Your brother and Hilde seem to be quite familiar. I doubt...."

"He saw you like that?" Ivar cut over her.

"I doubt he saw much of anyone but her."

"NO SWIMMING!" his voice was a near shriek. "None!" Looking away, his eyes danced around the tent. Leaning forward, he stared at her again, pointing his index finger.

"No swimming," he repeated, his tone loaded with warning.

Biting the end of her own to tongue, she stopped herself from saying anything further. She was comfortable quipping back at him in a civil setting, while they ate or played chess, but she was not so brazen to push him while like this.

"In fact, you stay away from the river." He nodded his head with a jerk. "Completely."

"Can I not fish?" The question slipped out. "I do enjoy helping the women," she said quietly.

Air shot out his flared nostrils and his face flickered at her gull.

"Swimming is actually an easier way to bathe?" she added.

"Do I not provide you with a tub? Thralls to help wash you?" his voice was building, barely controlled and she recognized that he would soon not be able to cool.

"You do, my Lord, you are most generous," she subtly bowed her head. "Ok," she acquiesced, "no swimming," she repeated softly.

"This is not a negotiation," he sniped, grabbing his cup only to find it empty.

"No, of course not." She pursed her lips together looking up toward the ceiling, willing her mouth to quiet. "But technically, my Lord...that is not exactly what a negotiation is."

"I know what negotiation is!" he roared, slamming his empty cup down on the table. "How dare you debate with me. I will not tolerate it. If you were anyone else I would have you whipped."

At that, their expressions dissolved, both instantly, looking stunned. Closing her eyes, she recomposed, breaking the silence first.

"Please, forgive me, my mouth is faster than my mind. I will not swim again. I apologize for angering you. Will you have a cup of wine with me before our meal is brought? You would likely prefer mead, yes?" She spoke calmly. Sweetly. Standing, she moved away from the table grabbing a pitcher from the entrance table. Approaching him from behind, she leaned over his shoulder and filled his cup. Her loose hair danced across the leathers of his back and her breast grazed his shoulder. His body froze in response, clenching his jaw as he inhaled her soft, honeyed scent. It was rousing, exhilarating. This woman is going to drive him to insanity, he thought.

"Shall we play dice tonight, or would you prefer chess?" she continued in a soothing tone.

Scowling, Ivar thought about his brother seeing her in the water, wet, his eyes on her body. Folding onto the ground, he grunted, ignoring her questions and crawled to his bed. Climbing up, he pulled his legs into place and, with a huff, lay down on his back.

Slipping through the flaps of the tent, Brana entered carrying two plates of food, hesitating at the sight of Ivar on his bed. She proceeded to put the plates down on the table, flashing Aethelswith a questioning look. Aethelswith could only shrug in response. Checking the pitcher of mead, Brana hurried back out through the door with likely no desire to catch Ivar's attention. Cool evening air swept through the open flap, making Aethelswith shiver.

"Are you not going to eat?" she asked.

There was no reply.

Lifting his head, with fingers interlaced on his chest as he looked at her.

"What were you wearing?"

"Pardon?" she questioned.

"Do you have water in your ears?" he grunted, resting his head back down. "What did you wear to swim?" he asked exaggerating each word, eyes still fixed on the tent ceiling.

"I swam in my clothes."

"What clothes?"

"The clothes I was wearing."

"Yes, thank you for your detailed description. What clothes were you wearing? Exactly."

"Umm...I was wearing my green dress."

"Which one?" he chirped.

"The sage green one with the embroidery around the neckline." Ivar nodded in recognition. "And my undergarments. I only took off my shoes and hosiery."

Ivar clenched his jaw at the image. "You are not lying to me, are you?"

"No."

"You would never lie to me, would you?"

"I would never lie to anyone," she replied softly.

It was quiet for a moment so Aethelswith began without him, lifting her spoon to taste her evening meal.

"Just this once," Ivar's voice was sharp, "try not to make as much noise when you eat as a cow chewing cud."

Smiling, Aethelswith ate the white fish, thinking a more appropriate title for him might be, Ivar The Jealous.


	13. Chapter 13

The smell of meat and warm bread awoke Aethelswith's taste buds. Placing down a tray, loaded with steaming bowls of thick soup and a plate of pan loaf, Brana quickly set up their meal, before retreating out the tent door, never lingering when Ivar was there.

"Rabbit stew," Aethelswith said, breathing in the aroma. "My favourite."

"I know," Ivar replied.

"How do you know?"

"The thrall told me"

"Which one?"

"I do not know their names, the one that cooks. The one who isn't Brana."

"You do not know their names? How long have they served you?" Aethelswith furrowed her brow.

"Not certain," he said with a shrug.

"Oh."

They ate in silence, the warm bread and richness of the gravy welcome in her tummy after a cup of the wine Ivar had brought back from God knows where. Clearing the empty bowls, Aethelswith refilled their cups; Ivar sticking to mead as the wine was stronger and he liked to keep his senses sharp.

Pulling the tafl board over, he lifted his brow asking her a silent question. Nodding she returned to her stool thinking she would need to nurse this next cup or any cunning against him would be lost.

Watching him set up the board, she noticed that his grey tunic was unlaced at the neck, gaping deeply each time he leaned forward to move a piece. Tanned, smooth skin slid taught over the defined muscle of his broad, impressive chest and shoulders. The movement pulling and distorting the dark lines of the ink symbols etched under his skin. She wondered if she ran her fingers over those tattoos, would she feel the lines like a brand or a scar. Never seeing his torso bare, the markings teased her eyes. She wanted to see them, in their entirety.

"My lord?"

"I have told you to call me Ivar when we are alone."

"I cannot, God is still here." The corners of her mouth lifted into a smile.

"Good, he can comfort you when you lose."

"My lord?"

"Aethelswith," he crooned back sarcastically.

"Where do you bathe?"

"Why do you want to know?" Tilting forward, he narrowed his eyes looking cheeky.

"I like to be informed," she chortled softly.

"In another tent." He looked up from the game again. "Would you prefer that I bathe here? In front of you, hmm?"

Rolling her eyes, she took his pawn, sliding her own into its square. They fell back into the rhythm of the game. Her move. His move. She could detect the instant Ivar realized his strategy, his forehead would smooth and his lips would pout as if he held the insight into life's greatest queries.

He really was disarming when he was not focussed on triumph, she thought. Enchanting when he genuinely smiled, at night, like this, when his severe and formidable exterior could be removed along with the braces on his legs. When his unbearable pain could be soothed by her companionship. Night after night, sharing the intimate space, sharing meals, sharing knowledge of their religions, memories of their childhoods, siblings and the loss of their parents.

"You are staring."

Aethelswith snapped back into her body at his tone.

"Am I?" she breathed. "I am sorry."

"What are you looking at?" Ivar's tone grew serious.

"My apologies."

Pink spread up her neck and into the apples of her cheeks; she cleared her throat twice feeling the effects of both the wine and his scrutiny. He waited...

"I have just...never...seen... someone like you before," she stuttered. A nightmare! This was a nightmare. Stop talking, she screamed in her head. Stop!

"Someone like me? Like what?" he growled, his jaw clenching tight. The feeling of foolishness flushing through him; of course, she would see him like everyone else. Why had he behaved so differently with her, like himself, he wondered feeling stupid, his hand tightening around his cup.

"I am unsure of the word to use."

"Crippled?" he sneered.

"Beautiful," she blurted.

Silence. Oh no, she thought. Lord please, pluck me from this stool and deliver me to my death.

More silence.....Ivar looked winded, stunned, his eyes round and face innocent like a boy. He fluttered his long lashes as if someone had just blown a candle out in his face. His eyes were locked on hers which looked equally shocked by the reveal. The tops of her ears started to burn and panic began to creep its way in. Her mouth went dry and she licked her lips to help draw out her next words. Ivar's gaze dropped down to her mouth. Oh no, she thought as he looked back up, but quickly glanced back down to her mouth.

"I apologize, my Lord. I, I must retire. I am rather fatigued." Rising from the stool, her feet fumbled to move around the wooden base, the hem of her green robe feeling much longer all of a sudden.

Like lightening, Ivar reached across the table and grabbed her wrist, her eyes snapping up to his. His face was soft, searching hers, with a flicker of something else in his stare. Is that what desire looks like, she wondered? Or fear? Am I even breathing right now, she asked herself, seeing that her hard, harshly battled Viking looked vulnerable. Not the bitter, heartless man the cruel world bound him to be. There you are, she silently remarked, I see you.

"Ivar," his name slipped from her lips, not realizing she had said it until it was already out floating between them. His eyes widened and his fingers tightened on her wrist. She winced under his strength and he whipped his hand back as if he had touched a hot pot.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his voice sounding strange.

"No. Please excuse me. I... please excuse me."

Quickly, she moved to her bed, tucking under the furs and drawing them up to her chin. She must look like a trapped animal, she thought, focussing on her breath, not wanting to make more of a spectacle. Closing her eyes, she listened for his movements, her heart pounding in her chest.

Sitting stiff behind the wooden table, his gaze burned into the small mound of furs on the far side of the dim tent.

With a soft thud, she heard him drop to the ground and drag himself to the foot of her bed. Her body froze and her breath hitched, not in fear but in the realization that she had altered the delicate veil between them. Jabbed a stick through the beautiful web of their denial. Had she become, in his eyes, the foolish girl that she obviously was, she wondered? Is that how he saw her? 

Letting out a low huff, he moved onward through the door of the warm tent and out, alone, into the darkness.


	14. Chapter 14

Ivar's limp body was being dragged. His head slumped forward and his heavy limbs jostled as Hvitserk, and another warrior named Loni hauled him toward the tent. Heaving him along, both men grunted under the awkward weight of his slack body.

Rushing forward, Brana and Gussr ran to help, stopping to listen to Hvitserk's urgent orders. Frozen in place, Aethelswith watched the horrific scene before her. Unable to hold back, she cried out, pleading for an explanation as to what happened.

The men dragged Ivar through the tent door, heaving him onto his bed and Loni rounded the far side, helping Hvitserk roll him onto his back. Slowly approaching the foot of the bed, Aethelswith scanned his wet clothes and his ash coloured skin, void, entirely of colour... of life. His lips were deep violet and his eyes stayed peacefully closed.

"Is he dead?" she covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the burn of tears in her eyes.

Crouching forward, Hvitserk brought his ear to Ivar's mouth and then dropped down, pressing his ear to his chest. His eyes darted side to side listening for sounds of life. Glancing up to Aethelswith, he nodded.

"He is little dead. Little heart. Little breathe," he answered thick with accent, using the best english he had.

Pushing through the tent flap, Brana and Gussr hurried in, carrying large rocks; Brana held one, while Gussr managed four. They placed them into the crackling fire and fast words began flowing between the men. Aethelswith's eyes dashed between them, hopelessly attempting to understand. Nodding, Brana approached Aethelswith, tipping her head close.

"Ivar insisted they cut across the frozen lake instead of following the shore back to camp. To save time and return before dark." Pausing, Brana listened to the men talking between themselves. "It sounds like the weight of his chariot broke the ice and he went into the water." She paused again. "It took time to get him out. The ice kept cracking. Ivar's horse and chariot were lost."

Reaching forward, she squeezed Aethelswith's arm. "The Prince is dying from the cold water, my Lady."

The ghastly image of the Ivar thrashing in the broken ice flashed through Aethelswith's mind. Her eyes widened and she shook her head.

"We must warm him," she whispered, "quickly."

Nodding, Brana returned to the fire and began laying sheets of thick canvas down flat on the ground, layering one on top of the other.

Rounding the bed, Aethelswith stood beside Hvitserk.

"We must undress him."

Hvitserk raised his eyebrows clearly not understanding.

"Remove his wet clothes," she explained, using her arms to motion.

Brana, glancing over her shoulder from the fire, rushed a fast translation to the men. Hvitserk's expression went slack and he nodded agreement.

Crawling onto her knees beside Ivar, Aethelswith reached for the bindings on his legs. Not wearing his braces in the chariot, his legs were bound tight by leather ties in three places. Her shaky hands fumbled with the first knot and Loni leaned in, motioning for her to move, and pushed a knife under the tie above his knees, cutting them with a crisp snap. Loni set to work on the other ties before he slipped his knife down the front of Ivar's pants. Turning the blade up, he sliced the fabric from his groin down to his boot making a smooth ripping sound and Hvitserk started on the buckles of Ivar's chest armour.

Gussr returned to the tent wearing oversized thick gloves that Aethelswith recognized as the one blacksmiths wore. Approaching, he quickly exchanged words with Brana before reaching into the fire with both hands and picking up one of the rocks. Lowering it onto the centre of the linens spread on the ground, Brana wrapped the edges of the fabric around the rock, holding her hands still on either side, gauging the heat coming through. Nodding to Gussr, he picked up the bundle and headed to the bed.

Moving to her own bed, Aethelswith quickly gathered her fur and wool blanket and rushed back to the men. She froze at the sight before her. Void of all signs of life, Ivar lay flat, naked in front of a tent full of people, looking like a corpse. The wrapped rock placed high in the crook of his arm, near his faint heart.

Taking a step closer, her eyes raked over his immense torso, large shoulders and muscular chest. A small trail of dark hair stretched from his navel down to his displayed member and beneath his groin were his legs. Their appearance was shocking; thin and scrawny without any of the muscle his upper body had. His knees her enlarged and knobby, thighs bowed and thins whispers of calves attached to misshaped ankles and puffy, swollen feet. The rounded soles, reminding Aethelswith of the feet of a baby. No defined arch or flat bottom, like an adult's from years of carrying the body's weight.

The form of his legs was not the only startling sight; it was their colour, causing her to gasp. They were grey, nearly blue with cold skin that looked like casing on uncooked meat. Biting the flesh on the inside of her cheeks, she looked away fighting the sensation to be sick.

"No," she cried to herself, shaking her head. She could not let him die like this, vulnerable and exposed, his chest barely moving with his shallow breaths.

Pushing past the men, she threw the wool blanket over his body, smoothing it around him, she added and straightened the fur. Grabbing Ivar's furs from the ground beside the bed, she piled those on top of the others. Brana lifted the stack of blankets at the foot of the bed and Gussr placed three more wrapped rocks around him.

Moving a stool from the table, Hvitserk dropped it beside the bed and sat, talking quickly to Loni and Gussr. Nodding, they hurried out of the tent.

Standing awkwardly at the end of the bed, Aethelswith just stared down at him, waiting.

"Is he still breathing?" she asked quietly, looking over at Hvitserk.

Seeming to understand, he leaned forward hovering his ear over Ivar's mouth. Sitting back on the stool, he looked up.

"Small," he answered again in english.

Fear and helplessness forced her to pace the small area in the tent, clutching her hands in front of her. Circling, back and forth, she watched Brana heat the new load of rocks. Wanting to do more, she stepped back to the bed and knelt on the grass and began rubbing Ivar's legs through the layers of blankets.

All this time, she thought, sharing one room and here she was running her hands over the most guarded part of his body. She nearly laughed at the horridness of the entire situation as if it couldn't be real.

Pulling back the furs to add another rock, Brana gasped and Aethelswith lurched over to see. White... his legs were white as bone and his feet had turned a deep blue with barely recognizable black toes. Hvitserk stood, grimacing as he bent closer to look and launched into Norse, shaking his head as he spoke to Brana.

"What is it? Please tell me." Aethelswith looked expectantly to Brana waiting for translation.

"Ivar's blood does not pass through his legs as well as it does the rest of him." Frowning, she looked back to the bed. "They may not warm."

Pushing herself up to stand, Aethelswith stared down at Ivar. Tossing her shall onto the bed, she reached for the laces at her bust and began to untie and open the front of her dress; both Hvitserk and Brana watching her with confused expressions.

"I will not sit and watch him freeze," she murmured, bringing each knee up and unstrapping her leather boots, pushing them off her heels.

Unsure of what to say, Hvitserk stepped back from the bed, allowing her more space.

The cold air hit her skin as she let her dress fall to her feet, standing in only her thin, sheer slip. Stepping around to the side of the bed, Hvitserk backed up further, knocking into Ivar's wooden table. Pulling back the heavy furs, she climbed into the bed beside him, sliding down his side and sucking in air as her skin made contact with his frigid body. Ivar, she thought, the most powerful, firey man in the world, now ice-cold. Shuddering, she closed her eyes remembering the heat that emanated from his large hand and sweet mouth the night she cut her thumb cleaning the fish.

Exhaling shakily, she looked up at his peaceful, pale face and slid her arm across his stomach, pulling herself closer against his body. Positioning her legs across his frozen ones, she pulled herself partially over him, resting her cheek on his cold chest. Taking another deep breath, she exhaled loudly, hold him as tight as she could.

Never did she believe she would be this close to him, a man she thought could never be hurt. She sighed loudly against his skin thinking that he was, in fact, human, made of flesh and blood like anyone else. Not the invincible, immortal she had built him up in her mind to be. Closing her eyes, she prayed. She prayed and she prayed. To her god and once through, she prayed to his.

She was aware that the tent flap opened and closed numerous times and that, at some point, the furs had been pulled back and careful hands had shifted her legs to replace the stones. She did not care who was in the tent or how long she had been there. Laying still, she closed her mind to the world, focussing only on the sound of her breath and the slow beat of his tired heart, willing it to strengthen. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump... following him into the darkness, she drifted off to sleep.

—

Looking down at her bare feet standing on grey ice, she shifted her toes unable to feel the burn of its cold. Disorientated, she looked up and scanned her surroundings. She was alone, a short distance into a large clearing with tall frosted trees forming a heavy guard around the frozen lake she was on. The light was muted and the shadows from the forest heavy, telling her it was that point in time between night and early morning. Large soft flakes of snow floated down at a speed too gentle to be real. The utter silence buzzed in her ears and a huff from ahead, snapped her from her daze.

A gasp slipped from her lips as she looked through the mist and across the ice. Standing in the centre of the lake was a magnificent buck, broad and imperial, proudly holding high its enormous antlers. She was no huntress, but she could see fourteen points on it's large rack. He was impressive, terrifying and beautiful. And seemed to be watching her. It had no reason to fear her and yet it was guarded.

He huffed again, his warm breath shooting like fog from his nose and jerking his head forward with a snort. Shaking the mange of hair on his neck, he again stood tall, continuing to assess her.

Tilting her head to one side, she watched, unsure if he was sending a message. Wondering how such a majestic creature had evaded death to reach its size and maturity. His sheer scale and immense rack would be the obsession of any man who had ever held a weapon and his awareness and evasive way surely his method of escaping death, escaping a violent end.

Suddenly, he whined and dipped his horns snorting loudly making her think that she should run away, but she could not. She stood still like a statue, eyes locked with his, feeling the sensation of recognition as she stared into his weary eyes.

A sound from behind caused her to turn and look at the edge of the forest. A man stood utterly motionless on the ice. His face was not visible from the shade of the hood on his deep dark cloak and over that he wore a vest of chainmail. Standing with his arms raised, he held a bow, the string stretched taut, the arrow aimed directly at the stag.

Gasping, she turned back to the beast, seeing him grow agitated. Snorting and huffing, dipping his head, he bucked the ice with the tips of his antlers. Rearing up on his hind legs, he slammed his hooves down, a sharp crack sounded followed by the groan of ice shifting.

Looking back to the hooded man, Aethelswith saw that his stance had not changed. She turned back to the stag who slammed his front hooves a second time, grunting an angry sounding groan, the ice beneath cracking him further.

"No," she cried to the animal. "Be still. Please."

Turning back to the man at the edge of the forest, she called out.

"Do not do this. Let him live. I beg you."

The bow and arrow held steady and the head of the hooded man turned to look at her dead on. There was no face, only a void of black. Slowly looking back to the stag, his hand on the string pulled.

"No!" Aethelswith screamed, stepping forward to run, arms raised in the air but she was knocked sharply in the chest, falling to her knees.

Mouth open and eyes wide, she made no sound. Reaching up, she touched her chest, feeling the embedded arrow, the pain hot like fire, stabbing through her. Looking down, she realized she was wearing her white marital dress, soaked in deep red blood. Falling forward onto her hands, the crimson drops pooled on the surface of the ice looking nearly black.

A loud crack rang through the silence followed by a squeal as the stag broke through the frozen lake, crashing into the cold water below. Frothing at the mouth and breath heaving, he thrashed violently in the water, his eyes wild, as he fought unable to lift his front hooves above the thick ice.

She could do nothing, only watch as he grunted frantically, struggling in the frigid water; his movements slowing as exhaustion and cold set in. Beginning to tire, he caught his chin on the edge of the broken ice, his head and antlers the only parts visible above the freezing water. Snorting, his cries quieted and his groans became weak and even at a distance, she could see the fear drain from his wide eyes.

"Do not leave me," she whispered, slumping onto her side, lowering her cheek to the ice. The cold bit at her skin as she lay, helplessly, watching the beautiful stag slip away, down into the darkness, until he was gone.

"I am sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes listening to the footsteps crunch over the fresh snow moving in her direction.

—

"My Lady?"

A hand shook her shoulder and she startled awake. Lifting her cheek from his skin, her eyes worked to adjust to the dim tent now lit by burning candles. It was night.

Immediately looking to Ivar, she could see, even in the dull light, small rounds of colour in the centre of his cheeks, his lips now a light shade of pink. Shifting her lower limbs, she could feel that his legs were cold but not frozen as they had been.

Brana was bending over her speaking in a soft voice and Aethelswith rubbed her face, attempting to clear the fog of her dream.

"My Lady, come eat something. Please." She motioned with her hands to the table.

"The stones, can we change them?" she replied to Brana.

"We did not long ago. We will again within the hour."

"Thank you."

"My lady, you must drink something. Water? Shall I bring it to you here?"

"Yes, thank you." She swallowed with effort.

Pulling away from Ivar, she sat up, the cold air on her bare arms and shoulders causing her to shiver. She wanted to return to his side under the blankets.

Taking the cup from Brana, she drank quickly, emptying it, handing it back with an appreciative nod. Her eyes returned to him, studying his features and listening to the sound of his breathing.

"Did he wake?" she looked back up to Brana.

"He stirred but did not wake."

"He must need water too," Aethelswith uttered, returning to watch him again.

Refilling the cup, Brana handed it to her and she leaned over him, her long messy braid rested on his bare shoulder.

"My lord?"

No reply.

"My lord?" she placed her hand on his arm and shook him gently. "Ivar?" she raised her voice.

His forehead pinched and he sucked in a deep raspy breath.

"Ivar, please wake. You need to water."

"He needs rest," Brana whispered to her. "We will try again in a little while but he is through the worst."

"His legs?" she asked.

"They are better than his toes," Brana replied evenly. "A healer will likely need to remove them."

Shaking her head, Aethelswith breathed out slowly.

"But he lives." Brana touched her arm, giving her a smile. "Thanks to you."

Aethelswith turned to look at her. "No Brana, thanks to you."

With a flat smile, she nodded to Aethelswith.

"Would you like me to collect more furs and make up your bed my Lady?"

"I will stay here," she replied, shimmying back down beside him, pulling the blankets back up to cover them both. Resting her face back down to his chest, she wrapped her arm over is now warm stomach and her leg over his. He lives, she thought, as she closed her eyes and allowed the smell of his skin and steady breathing to carry her back off into sleep.

The tent flap opened and closed throughout the night and the fire continued to burn, the rocks rewarmed and replaced. Light began to illuminate the tent as dawn made its return.

She woke feeling a heavy arm around her, squeezing, with a large hand on her lower back. Clearing his throat roughly, Aethelswith's head shot up peering at his still closed eyes. He began coughing and hacking as if his lungs were being used for the very first time.

Sitting up, she rushed to climb out from his grip and away from their compromising position. Pulling the covers back over him, her hand slowly swept over his in a final bid for contact. Grabbing her green robe, she wrapped it around herself and collected her shoes from the grass beside the bed.

Stopping at the tent door, she looked back and nearly whimpered. Scanning his handsome face, she wiped away the tears in her eyes, her body still savouring the warmth of his skin. Turning away, she slipped through the tent flaps out into the cold, bleak morning, never feeling more alone.


	15. Chapter 15

"She what!" Ivar roared.

"Yes, Ivar"

"The Princess?"

"Yes, Ivar."

"Aethelswith?" 

"Yes, Ivar!" Hvitserk exclaimed. "Is there another?"

"She undressed and lay with me?" his voice waning in disbelief.

"GODS Ivar, yes." Hvitserk rolled his eyes, holding up a hand. "This is what I have been telling you."

"I cannot remember," he uttered quietly. Lifting his head off his pillow, he paused as if to say something further but dropped back down. His eyes darting wildly around the ceiling of the tent. "Why can I not remember?" he growled, frustrated. "You are telling me that she lay in this bed. That I am in now. With her body against mine. Aethelswith."

Leaning forward, Hvitserk rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with his hands. "To warm you, yes. I am not repeating this again."

Attempting to sit up, Ivar winced as the screaming pain in his knotted legs shot up his back. Having never been able to wiggle his toes, his feet lay still, stinging as if they rested above an open flame. He brought a hand up to his forehead, confused and party skeptical. 

"I cannot believe it," he whispered, squeezing his eyes tight. With a huff, he opened them and slammed his arms down into the furs on either side of him. "As hard as I try, I cannot force my mind to conjure the memory. I cannot recall what she felt like. I want to know what she felt like." He shook his head again. "Why?"

"Who would not want to know what a woman like that feels like," Hvitserk scoffed, instantly glancing over at Ivar.

"No, that is not my meaning. I am asking why she did it."

"Brother, you were in a dire state, barely alive. She was visibly troubled. We all were. You were hardly breathing and your lips had turned purple, your entire body white. White! Your feet are wretched." He grimaced shaking his head. "I would not rush to look at those if I were you."

"My entire body?" he questioned in a low voice.

"Yes," Hvitserk nodded.

"I was bare?"

"Yes, she insisted we cut off your clothes?"

"She took off my clothes?" his eyes widened. 

"No. She said your wet clothes needed to be removed in order to warm you. Obviously, she was correct. Loni and I did the dirty work."

"She saw me?"

Hvitserk did not reply.

"And then she got in bed with me?" he tilted his head up to look at Hvitserk. "Why? Why would she do that?" 

"Please, Ivar, you must know why she did it," he shrugged. "Why not just ask her?

"I will not ask her," he spat. "I have to share this tent with her knowing she saw me like that." His head dropped back, and he ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the images in his mind. "I was exposed, weak, my pathetic legs on display," his eyebrows spiked high on his forehead. "Everything on display."

"Look Ivar, you are fortunate to even be alive. For some reason, the Gods kept you here, gave you another chance at this life. The princess and your thrall worked all night to warm you." Looking down at the grass, Hvitserk shook his head. "Ivar, you are my brother. Despite everything I love you, but no one was more distressed at the thought of you dying than her. Truthfully, I do not think she cares about your legs."

"Get out!" Ivar shouted. "Get out!"

Rising from his seat, Hvitserk hesitated and then turned toward the tent door.

"Wait!" 

Rolling his eyes, Hvitserk sat back down looking at Ivar expectantly.

"Tell me again. What did she do?"

—

Glancing up from her roasted pheasant, Aethelswith tipped her head to one side, narrowing her eyes and glared at Ivar. Too focused on maintaining his own scowl, he did not notice her stare.

"Truly?" she snapped.

"Truly what?" he snapped back.

Eyeing one another, Ivar irritably sighed and continued eating, taking a deep drink from his cup.

The recent weeks had been exhausting. The warm, charged atmosphere between them fractured by Ivar's mood and agonizing pain. His body was slow to return to its previous condition and a restored layer of awkwardness was again between them. Rage and frustration, even resentment, replacing Aethelswith as his dear companion.

Confined for nearly two weeks to bed, and another only able to crawl, any nearby item became an object for throwing. Hvitserk took a jug to the shoulder while attempting to update Ivar on the running of the camp and the recovery of his chariot. And, Ivar scarcely looked at Aethelswith, let alone spoke to her.

Uncertain how to behave, she gave him as much space as she was able, although, difficult while sharing such close quarters. Not engaging him but staying close, she could not begin to understand the pain he experienced while his body fought to heal. His poor circulation as much of a culprit as the icy water. The healer was able to save all but three toes, two from his left foot, and one from his right were cut, removed and cauterized. Ivar did not share Aethelswith's sentiments of success as she felt this was remarkable given their previous blackened state.

As uncomfortable as it was to be near him and his violent outbursts, she felt it better than him stewing alone. Isolation was one agony she could understand. Her patience, however, had its limits.

Her eyes were still narrowed at him, her head shaking in disbelief.

"What!" Ivar demanded

"Can you not feel that?"

"Feel what?" he asked, beyond frustrated. 

"Feel your drink spilling," Her eyebrows lifted.

"What?" he scrunched up his forehead. "What are you on about?"

"You spill your drink down your chin nearly every time you bring it to your lips."

He shook his head trying to make sense of her comment, chewing his food slowly.

"It is as if you are incapable of gauging the volume of mead in your cup," she continued.

His head shot back, and his mouth gaped. "Are you being insolent?"

"I am being helpful by directing it to your attention." She held his gaze, her face cold, edging on his irritation.

"Why would I care for your help?" he sneered.

"Perhaps when you are through building your legacy and you, what you call, have a woman," she grumbled sarcastically, "you might care how she feels about such things."

Ivar's eyes widened in surprise, never seeing her so ruffled.

"Why would I care what she feels?" he retorted.

"When you meet the woman who captures your heart, Ivar the Boneless, you will unquestionably care how she feels."

Seriousness settled across his face and he swallowed loud enough for her to hear. Looking at his plate of food, he lifted his cup to drink, only to hesitate mid-air, and place it back down.

Silence.

"My Lord," she rushed in a whisper, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. "This tent is closing in on me today. I think I am going mad." Closing her eyes, she rested her elbows on the table covering her face with her hands. "I am sorry." She shook her head. "I am sorry."

Ivar sat frozen, saying nothing looking at her wearied form. Closing his eyes, regret swept through him. What was he doing? How could he keep her in this tent month after month, season after season like some exquisite dove locked away in a wicker cage?

Running his hand down his face, he opened his eyes and studied her, biting his lower lip.

"The men are restless," he straightened, clearing his throat. "I will throw a feast to invigorate them. Restore and lift spirits," he paused waiting for her reaction. Uncovering her face, she straightened on her seat, listening. "You will come. You will dine with me." He cleared his throat again. "As my guest."

"Is that safe?"

"Aethelswith!" he exclaimed making her eyes widened from the rare use of her name. "You will be with me. Of course, it is safe."

A puzzled expression settled on his face and he wondered if it was fear of being alone in this heathen camp, out from under his cloak and surrounded by brute men, that had her work so hard save him? Was it familiarity that had her no longer view him as a threat? Or was it something more? Was his mind tricking him into believing, she too, could close her eyes and picture every detail of his face? Hear, in her mind, the tenor of his voice and the sound of his steady breathing when he slept in the night? Like he could with her.

"Do you not think me capable of protecting you?" he asked in a quiet voice. His expression teetering between hope and rejection.

She shook her head lightly. "I was unprepared for your question, that is all. You are one of the most capable men I will ever know."

Looking down at the table, Ivar allowed her words to wash over him and settle deep into his mind. Exhaling slowly, thoughts of her ivory skin flashed in his thoughts. The sensation of her breath and sweet scent and tousled hair sweeping across his chest forced him to adjust on his stool and inhale again. Glancing back up, a shiver washed across his shoulders raising goosebumps down the length of his back. His flesh responding to her words and the images in his mind. He squeezed the cup, struggling with both the weight of her response and the notion that, despite his black memory of that day, his body remembered her.

Like clouds rolling in the sky, she watched his emotions flit across his handsome face. Was she really, willingly, going to feast with the enemies of her brother? The raiding Northmen of the camp? Her mind tipped each thought over as she worked to maintain a neutral face, ignoring the excitement bubbling inside her. 

"Very well." She looked up to see Ivar's pleased face. "When?"

"In two nights time. Give them time to prepare. My chariot should be fully restored by then and the new horse trained. That is something to celebrate."

"Along with your life," she looked at him with a pinched smile.

Nodding, he took a mouthful of meat, unable to stop his smile as he chewed.

Sighing, Aethelswith could feel her emotions lift along with the heaviness in the tent. An evening to look forward to, she thought. An evening with Ivar. Grabbing a lock of her partially tied back hair, she looked down, swirling it around her finger.

"Perhaps, I will ask Brana to braid my hair."

"No," he replied sharply, immediately softening his face. "Wear your hair down. It is so fetching that way." Clearing his throat, pink began to creep across the center of his cheeks. "You would not want to be mistaken for a Viking." The corners of his lips lifted again.

She nodded, shifting her gaze away from his bright face and to her trunk sitting against the canvas wall. What formal dresses had been packed all those months ago, she wondered? The images of beads and fabrics of various colours and texture skipped through her mind. Ah, yes, she thought; a smile tickled the corners of her own mouth and she looked back to her captor with only one question in mind. Does he like the colour red?


	16. Chapter 16

The warm light of the setting sun cast a golden hue over her fair skin making her blue eyes appear a soft grey. He had rarely spent time with her outside the tent and had never noticed the small freckle just below the bottom lashes of her left eye. Even her spots are charming, he thought.

Rows and rows of long tables with bench seats filled the camp's dining area. Pausing at the edge, he waiting for Aethelswith to stand beside him.

"Our table is there." Looking down at her, he took a slow step forward, silently indicating his request for her to walk with him.

The chatter dimmed as every person turned their gaze to the captive. Most had seen her in the camp before but not dressed as she was now and not standing side by side with their leader. The gown she wore was deep red in colour, made of plush velvet with a slight train. The bodice fitted tight to her body and the full skirt widened just below her hips. The plunging neckline and long-sleeved cuffs were bordered with soft cream lace.

Upon first seeing her walk from the tent to greet him, Ivar had felt confronted. Losing sight, in that moment, of his controlled demeanor. A sensation of panic swept through him, and he knew in that moment that not even a cage around his heart could protect him from her. He had smiled broadly, fully, and without restraint. As did she as they stood, face to face, in the open. She was exquisite, a vision. A petite vision. The top of her head not even in line with his shoulder, standing where they were now, in front of his people.

Feeling the crowd's interest, she walked as close to Ivar as his crutch would allow as they made their way between the tables toward their seats. Ivar preened as his men gawked at her, strutting past the tables, making no attempt to contain his glee.

He loved the attention and wondered if fame and glory were the only things worth fighting for. Was devotion a motivation that could turn men into legends, he wondered? Even legends into Gods? Questions flew through his mind as he glanced down to the beauty walking beside. So much spirit fit inside that tiny body, he thought. It made him feel like a giant; ten feet tall. He felt invincible with her next to him. Whole and proud; a new motivation for greatness taking seed deep in his mind.

Aethelswith took the seat next to him, feeling anxious under the weight of the warriors' scrutiny. Keeping her back straight, she softly lowered her chin, not wanting to overcompensate for her discomfort by appearing smug.

A thrall appeared between them and filled Ivar's cup. He past it directly to her, stunning her with his manners in front of his men. Lifting his glass, he leaned close.

"Skoll," he said with a grin.

Smiling in return, she repeated his cheer, taking a sip of her drink. The taste surprising her.

"What is this? It is delightful."

Tilting back toward her. "I believe you Christians call it communion wine."

Aethelswith's eyes widened as she sampled the sweet red wine a second time.

"I wish had not asked."

Thralls began bringing the food that had been the source of the mouth-watering aroma. Cheers and laughter could be heard in all directions as the warriors crudely grabbed food from the trays placed in the centre of the long tables. Aethelswith surveyed the rough way the men and women were eating with their hands, gulping mead and speaking while their mouths were full of food. 

A platter was placed in front of them along with two plates, prepared just for them. The food looked and proved to be delicious; mixed meat, root vegetables, and charred fish. As they ate, Aethelswith listened to Ivar speak in his native tongue to Loni who was seated on his far side. Aethelswith had been relieved when Gussr sat down on her other side. His calm presence providing a warm sense of reassurance.

People continued to cast Aethelswith looks making no attempt at subtlety, particularly, two of Ivar's shieldmaidens. They sat, heads together, not hiding their sneers and distaste.

"Are you well?" Ivar asked keeping his face forward.

"I am, thank you."

"You said you would never lie."

"The food and wine are wonderful. That is the truth, my Lord." She paused selecting her next words carefully. "The company is...unfamiliar."

Shifting, he looked at her. She leaned closer and Ivar immediately followed, turning his ear toward her lips.

"I do not believe I am welcome," she said in a low tone, "by everyone."

Glancing up, Ivar saw the two women who seemed to relent at his notice.

"I do not believe they want me dining with you," she whispered. Ivar stayed leaning toward her, still looking at the maidens.

"No, I do not believe they do." He popped a piece of turnip into his mouth. "But I do." His expression broke into a smile. Straightening in his chair, he grabbed the jug in front and filled her cup with wine. Then grabbed her chair and yanked it closer to his so their armrests were touching. Turning back to his far side, he continued speaking with Loni.

The volume of the celebration increased to a boisterous roar as more jugs of ale were brought out. Men sitting at the closest table began belching as loudly as they could muster, attempting to one-up the other. Aethelswith tried to avert her attention, sipping her wine, inwardly revolted and hoping one of their throats would rupture.

Glancing back to her, Ivar barked something in Norse, addressing the group of disgusting men. From working with the thralls, she recognized only the word for animals. The men laughed thinking what he said, he said in jest, but instantly quieted seeing his stern face. They exchanged glances and continued to drink from their cups, murmuring in low voices.

"Playing Saxon nobleman tonight, Ivar?" Hvitserk shouted above the noise from his seat at the end of a nearby table.

Saying nothing, Ivar's jaw tightened and he glared back.

Thralls lit the torches as the light dwindled into night and the sharp wind moving between the tables was a brisk reminder, that summer was not yet arrived. Aethelswith shrugged her shawl higher to cover her back and shoulders.

"Are you cold?" he asked. "I will get you a fur."

Raising his far arm, he motioned for a slave. Aethelswith grabbed his closest hand on the rest of his chair and his head snapped down to look.

"I am fine, my Lord, really. I am fine." She too looked down at their embrace.

She could not look away. His broad hand looked immense below hers; her skin pale and smooth in comparison. Heat seemed to radiate from him and she swept her thumb across his rough knuckle before startling. Withdrawing her hand quickly, she knew it had lingered. Knowing, also, that Ivar was not someone to have missed her hesitancy. Looking down, into her lap, she could feel Ivar analyzing her. Exhaling slowly, she raised her eyes to his; his expression of longing caused her to bite her lip between her teeth. Licking his own lower lip, his eyes roamed her face, the corners of his mouth lifting in an uncertain smile.

"Princess," he said gently, leaning closer. Reaching over the armrest, he took her hand again in his, rubbing his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

Not able to blink, her eyes were locked to his, pleased she had not finished her second glass of wine. Any less reserve and she would have closed the small space between them and pressed her lips to his.

Gods, he wanted to touch her. Kiss her. He wanted to pull her small body over to sit on his lap. His entire life he had watched men do that with their lovers and he wanted that with her. He wanted everything with her. Could someone like him have more than blood and battles, he wondered? Was he truly prepared to sacrifice so much for this woman? Even Ivar the Boneless is human, he thought. 

"Are you pleased to be here? With me?" His eyes were round and his expression serious.

"I am," she whispered.

Drawing his brows together, his face grew stern. "Aethelswith, I must ask you. I want..."

"Ivar?" Hvitserk was suddenly standing directly in front of them.

"No!" Ivar blasted without looking away from Aethelswith.

Shifting on his feet, Hvitserk looked down at their clasped hands.

"Ivar?" he repeated.

"What!" he shouted, turning to look up at him.

"The scout has returned. Alfred agreed to your terms. They will make the trade for her just after dawn."

Ivar froze, closing his eyes, and inhaled deeply as if to steady himself. Opening his eyes, he glared at Hvitserk.

"We will discuss this in private," he hissed through clenched teeth, looking furious.

Aethelswith attempted to pull her hand back but Ivar tightened his grip, holding it in place.

Agreed to the terms, she questioned? Trade for her? Dawn? Her mind raced trying to make sense of what Hvitserk had said. Who was taking her place, she wondered? Surely not Alfred. She stared down at their clasped hands.

"I will meet the men in one hour."

Nodding, Hvitserk moved away from the table.

"I am going home?" she asked in a voice that sounded strange.

"You are going home." He answered flatly, not meeting her gaze.

Dropping her hand, he reached for his crutch.

"I will take you back to the tent now."

Pushing himself to stand, he awkwardly stepped away, leaving her still seated in the chair. Realization hit her in the chest; Ivar was giving her up.


	17. Chapter 17

"Please tell me what is going on?" she called to him as he stocked ahead of her and through the door of the tent.

Eyes darting around the inside of the canvas, he searched for something to direct his fury at. This was it, she was leaving, he thought. Closing his eyes, he attempted to steady his rapid breathing, not recognizing the emotion surging through him. It was not anger. Grief? The coldness in his stomach reminding him of the loss he felt mourning his mother. Had he not orchestrated the princess's return? He could change his mind. He did not have to give her up, he told himself. Why should he?

"My Lord."

Her soft voice coming from behind needled into his brain. Turning, he looked at her sweet, questioning face and sighed. That is why I am doing this, he thought, that exquisite face. Breathing deeply, he exhaled again, forcing his shoulders to soften.

"I do not understand. Did Alfred grant you the territory?"

"How do you know of that?" he asked.

"Slaves talk." She shrugged. "As do warriors when in bed with slaves."

Looking at her light blue eyes, the bow of her delicate lips, he could not help but reach forward and sweep back a loose curl resting on the side of her perfect face. She leaned into his hand, her eyelids closing, as his fingers gently ran down the side of her jaw to her chin. Clenching into a fist, he pulled his hand back, dropping it to his side and cleared his throat. Her eyes fluttered open and she furrowed her brow, watching his composure harden.

"The terms were changed." Turning away, he shuffled over to his stool, his legs screaming at him to sit.

"Who am I being traded for?"

"Your husband," he could not look at her.

Her eyes widened in both shock and confusion.

"Why? Why Burgred?"

"Because I can." Looking back to her, his head cocked to one side, studying her reaction.

"Will Burgred..."

"He will never return to you," Ivar answered before she could finish. "Will you hate me for it?"

"No."

"What will you feel for me?" his eyes narrowed, waiting on her response.

"Not hate." She stared back.

His gaze faltered and he looked away. "After tomorrow you must go elsewhere. You may return home to say farewell, but it is best that you then leave for your aunt's in Frankia. I have an uncle there..."

"I beg your pardon," she rushed.

His eyes snapped back to her. "Wessex is not safe for you. No where in England is. Vikings will return to conquer these lands and I am not going to have you..." Stopping, he glanced up to the ceiling, shaking his head. "You must go to Frankia."

"My brothers are all that I have."

"You are a grown twenty-year-old woman," he spat. "Your brothers are both getting married. Why would they need you there?"

"Will you continue to negotiate with Alfred?"

"It is over." His voice dropped to a quiet tone.

"Are you going home? To take back your mothers' throne?"

"Yes."

She nodded acknowledging his answer.

"I will not go to Frankia. I cannot. They are horrendous people. I would consider life in a monastery ahead of going there."

"Woman, you are not becoming a nun." He paused, wondering if perhaps her living a celibate life was a better notion.

Her eyes flashed wide. "I said consider."

They were silent, lost in their own thoughts. She glanced down to the ax resting on the table before him, the same ax she had watched him sharpen likely a thousand times. Across the wooden surface sat her drawing supplies, carefully organized, next to his tafl board and stack of maps. Sweeping her eyes around the tent, she looked at their beds just steps apart, both neatly made layered with lavish wool and rich furs. Closing her eyes, she wondered if she would soon be wandering the cavernous hallways of home, yearning for this small canvas world. Opening her eyes, she stared at the thin parchment hanging on the canvas above the log table beside his bed; two ravens perched on a birch branch. It was his favourite of all her drawings, and he had asked to keep it. He often sat on the side of his bed and looked at those two black birds. Would he take it with him, she wondered? Or would it be discarded along with her and everything else they had shared? She looked back to Ivar who sat staring down at his hand now resting on the handle of the ax. A heaviness washed over her and she felt as if she was being pushed down into the cold earth.

"So, this is it?" her voice cracked, causing her to clear her throat.

"Come to Kattegat?" he blurted, his eyes lifting to hers.

"Come to Kattegat? And what...?" her voice trailed off.

"Live as a free woman. Do anything you want."

"Leave Wessex?" Live with Northman?"

"No Princess, we do not call ourselves Northmen." The tenor of his became sharp. "You Saxons call us Northmen. We are Viking."

"How improved," she snapped. "Live with Vikings, a Christian Princess, sister to your enemy, and what of my brothers? Hope they understand that I have run away with Ivar the Boneless. Who killed our grandfather!"

"He killed himself when he handed my father over to Aelle!" Ivar shouted, his expression darkening. "Good," he gibed, pushing his jaw forward and rolling his tongue inside his cheek. "Stay in Wessex, I could care less. I do not need you clinging to me... pathetically." Looking away, he pretended to analyze the tent wall. "Plus, I will be getting married when I return."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

"You are getting married?" she whispered. "Who are you marrying?" She could hear her heartbeat thunder in her ears.

"A shieldmaiden," he quipped. Still seemingly fascinated with the tent wall.

"From the feast tonight?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Her eyes dropped to the grass floor. "Which one?"

"Perhaps, I will marry both." Turning back to her, he gave an unconvincing look of arrogance.

Exhaling quickly, she rolled her eyes realizing it was all bravado, feeling her own anger pricking at the skin below the ruffled lace of her neckline.

"Well, let me be the first to congratulate you," she announced dramatically. "This is splendid news. I should provide your brides with my recommendations on how to survive living with you."

Narrowing his eyes, he cocked his head, sliding his tongue back and forth over his lower lip. "Who do you think you are talking to? Survive?" His anger was gaining strength. "Survive!" he bellowed. "You were treated well! I was gentle with you. I..." he stopped, looking down. "I was gentle with you." His face was now red.

"How fortunate for me!" she spat.

"I could have tortured you. I could have kept you changed to a post like a dog." He looked up to her again, his eyes wild. "Starved you, made you lude entertainment for my men." His voice dropped to a smooth, maniacal tone "You should not have wasted your prayers to your god each night, Princess. No, no, no, no," he shook his head, pointing his index finger. "You should have gotten on your knees before me. Bowed down and given thanks to me each night."

Stepping closer to where he sat, she bent forward, placing her hands on the edge of the table.

"Oh, you would have loved that, my Prince," she whispered with a smirk, her voice accentuating his title.

Aghast, his eyes widened, and he clenched his teeth, squeezing the handle of his ax. If he had not been so close to killing her, he would have been proud.

"Oh yes," she continued patronizingly, tipping her head to one side. I will be eternally grateful for the ten months I spent forced into companionship to Ivar the Boneless... because no free woman would!"

The muscles in the side of his neck bulged and his nostrils flared. Rage.

She knew his insecurities and had just made a mockery of their closeness. Nearly gasping, Aethelswith watched his anger morph into hurt. Knowing she had gone too far and that she had never once been mistreated. Sadness flashed in his face, weakening his chin. Clasping her hand over her mouth, she stared at his broken expression, instantly awake to the fact that, for nearly a year, he had shared his most intimate thoughts and she had just used them as a weapon.

He shook his head and sneered. "You filthy, worthless, inept Christian. Your own brother not even believing you are worth a patch of unused land. Oh!" he let out a high pitch laugh, "And, I know how much your dear husband values you." Ivar picked up his ax, pointing the pick in her direction. Clucking his tongue, he shook his head again. "I am beginning to understand why he was forced to take such a hard hand to you."

Stunned, her mouth fell open and she could not take a breath. Lowering her eyes, she reached up, fumbling with her hair, tucking the loose curls behind her ear. Wanting to escape his brutal words, she closed her eyes.

Ivar knew he had hurt her. Regret dashed under the surface of his fury, however, it was fleeting. Too angry to pay it or her any mind. Grabbing his crutch, he pulled himself to stand and stocked past her.

"Goodbye Princess," he sang in a nasty tone, slapping through the flaps of the tent.

He was gone.

Outside, beyond the tent walls, the sound of his rage filled scream jarred her from her frozen stance.

—-

Her mind was blank, overwhelmed; her body pulsing with emotions surging through. She was going home. Burgred was taking her place. Numb, her mind fought to rake together the pieces of mystifying information. Burgred would have never volunteered for such an act of valour unless it related to battle. Certainly not for her. She was baffled. Was the agreement ingenuous,, she wondered? Had the deal been orchestrated by Ivar. Had he truly just said goodbye?

Her stomach felt empty despite the ample meal they had shared. Taking her first steps since he had stormed out, she walked around to Ivar's side of the table. Slowly sitting down on his stool, she placed her hands wide on the surface and lowered to rest her cheek. This was it, she let out a shaky breath. Squeezing her eyes closed, she pictured his beautiful cherubic face. Her mind spun attempting to sear every detail of it into her memory. His soft, full lips, his strong jaw and smooth skin; those hypnotic blue eyes. She knew what he was and that he would never stop, but when he looked at her, the world would evaporate, taking away the reality of his violence. Leaving behind only them, for a time, until the sun would rise again.

Her chin trembled as the tears dripped from the bridge of her nose to the table below. She was slapped by the notion that surrounded by her family, even a packed court, there would never be a night she would lie in bed and not ache for him. She would, forever, move through the years of her life feeling his absence.

Did he know? Could he feel it, she wondered? Opening her eyes, she lifted her head and sat up. Wiping the tears from her face, she reached across the table and grabbed her wooden box, pulling over a loose sheet of parchment and began.

—-

"What has happened?" Hvitserk held his arm out to Ivar, not foolish enough to actually touch him.

Sitting forward, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, Ivar squeezed his eyes shut. Forcing breath in and out of his nose.

"How long do you plan on holding Burgred?" Hvitserk asked, dropping his arm down and grabbing his cup of ale.

"I am not holding Burgred," Ivar sneered, keeping his eyes closed.

"We have been sitting in this camp with our dicks in our hands for nearly a year. What is the plan? What are you going to do with him?"

"I am going to carve his back with my ax. I am going to remove his skin so slowly that it does not take his life." Opening his eyes, he looked at Hvitserk and glared. "I am going to drink ale with a skinless, living, breathing man."

Hvitserk lowered his cup from his mouth, his face scrunched with confusion.

"Ivar, you are talking like a crazed man. You look like a crazed man. Will you still release the princess to the king?

"Yes, unless I practice on her tonight."

"Yeah, okay Ivar. How will we negotiate for land holding Burgred?"

"We will not. I have grown sick of this country. We are leaving."

Hvitserk's jaw dropped and he looked to the empty chair next to him as if to share his exasperation with the person beside.

"It is time I reclaimed our home. I want war. Blood and revenge. I want to burn them all.

"Who do you want to burn?

"Everyone."

"You want her for yourself Ivar." It was a statement.

Sitting in silence, Ivar's eyes were glassy from the consecutive horns of mead which did nothing to loosen the grip around his chest, his throat.

"Take her, Ivar!" Hvitserk exclaimed, leaning forward. "Claim her."

"And what brother, be like them? Drag her home and make her marry me. A woman like that, hmm? A girl who has never had a say. Keep her as a prisoner? A slave Queen? You understand nothing." Ivar spat, emptying his cup and throwing it into the darkness beyond the fire.

"I understand more than you think. I watched the two of you tonight, holding hands, whispering. Your heads close like you share secrets. You look like lovers. She must return some of your feelings."

Tears pooled, threatening to spill from Ivar's eyes and he exhaled slowly.

"Apparently not. She goes tomorrow, but!" He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Only if I can kill her husband." He raised a finger and looked at Hvitserk. "Myself."

"That is not truly what you want. Tell me?"

Saying nothing, Ivar stared into the glow of the fire; the night sky continued to change as the stars faded and the outline of the trees began to appear.

"You and Gussr have your instructions. The birds will be out in a few hours." Ivar stood, stopping to steady his balance, the effects of the drink deep in his veins.

"Ivar, what do you want brother?"

"To hold the dawn."

Dropping to the ground, he dragged himself in the direction of the tent, pulling his crutch awkwardly along in one hand.

Outside the tent, Gussr sat on a stool, standing when he saw Ivar moving toward him on the ground. The moon catching the leather on his back, making them appear like the scales of a slithering snake.

Stopping beside Gussr, he kept his head down.

"Go."

Gussr hesitated.

"She leaves tomorrow, my Prince?" There was an apology somewhere in his question.

"She does." Ivar pushed through into the tent.

The fire was nearly out. Crawling toward it, he added two pieces of wood despite the weather not truly needing it. Letting out a deep sigh, he peered over at her sleeping form, not able to stomach the thought of sleeping elsewhere. Despite their strong words, he just could not pull himself into some other tent to avoid her on the last night they would ever be near. There would be little sleep for him anyway with the thoughts of morning grinding into his brain. Leaning back against the leg of the table, he unstrapped his braces, continuing to glance to her side of the tent.

Withdrawing her grandfather's dagger from the holster on his belt, he studied the handle and intricately spun gold vines. The flickering light caused the rubies to look like stones made of blood. Rolling onto his arms, he lumbered over to her bed, crawling up to rest beside her. Hesitating, he reached forward, carefully picking up a lock of her hair, and sheering it with the knife. She did not stir. 

Squeezing her wavy hair in his hand, he lay his face down on the bed beside her, placing her dagger on the sheet between them. After dawn, this lock of strawberry flaxen hair is all he would have left of his princess.


	18. Chapter 18

Daybreak was masked by a blanket of low clouds, dark with coming rain, and a shifting wind that did nothing to ease Ivar's anguish. Leaving Aethelswith to sleep, he returned to his men by the fire; he could not be near her. Could not lie beside her and keep himself from reaching for her or running his weathered fingers across the skin of her face. Could not feel her body in his arms and then hope to survive a day with her gone. He was setting her free, and as a result, slamming the door to his own dungeon.

Ignoring the drink in his hand, his mind was haunted by the details of the coming morning. He remained in his chair long after the others slowly disbursed to their tents to catch a couple of hours of rest before the trade-off. He could not return. If he had, he would crawl back into the space beside her and never let her leave; his beautiful Princess. She deserved the world, everything! More than a life with a half-of-a-man cripple and far more than a future decided for her.

As the light broke through the trees, reflecting daybreak on the surface of the stream, his restraint proved less than ironclad. The thought of his last words being the cutting, cruel ones he had spoken out of hurt made him feel ill. His heart to raced, forcing him to swallow back the taste of bile from his stomach. Moving quickly through the tent doors, he needed to speak with her one last time. Needed to see her, be alone with her inside that tent, hidden from the merciless world, one last time.

She was gone. His eyes bounced from object to object as if delaying the impact of its emptiness. Closing his eyes, he cursed his brother for following his orders to ready her by dawn.

Adjusting his crutch under his arm, he swiveled toward the door, his eye catching on something out of place. Squinting through the dim light at an object on his desk. Moving toward the table, he stood, staring down at her gold dagger. Shuffling around his stool, he picked up the narrow knife, the same knife Hvitserk had removed from her the day of her capture and Ivar only felt it right to return it. She had purposely left it for him. Spinning the handle in his hand, he exhaled quickly, wishing she knew the meaning behind gifting a man a family knife. Looking down, he noticed the thin sketching paper the knife had been resting on. Not able to tell what the lines were through the parchment, he flipped it over and his heart surged, a spark shooting through his body. Biting his bottom lip hard, emotions bloomed behind his eyes. On the page, etched in delicate charcoal lines was the exact likeness of his large rough hand with her small, fine hand tucked within. He shook his head at the sentiment of the drawing; their sweet embrace, just the night before. She too had felt it, the longing. This offering was her only way to express it. Closing his eyes, pain coursed through his chest.

—

Ivar tugged the reigns to slow his horse, stopping the chariot beside Hvitserk. Standing behind the crowd of warriors already in position, Hvitserk's glance caught the suffering in his young brother's face. Ivar pulled his leather scarf up to just below his inflamed eyes. An attempt to conceal the tremble in his jaw and his tear streaked face. He was afraid to even swallow for fear of a sobbing.

Searching the front line of his chapter of warriors, Aethelswith's flowing blue cape caught his eye. Her small frame sat in front of Gussr on his tall grey horse. Her hood was up, shielding the side of her face from view. Locks of her warm golden hair, picked up by the wind, stood out against the rich blue fabric.

Gussr jerked the reigns and his horse stepped forward. It was time. Ivar's eyes shot across the expansive field and over the sea of armoured soldiers to the meek, pale skin King sitting atop a black horse. A chestnut horse at the front of Alfred's army stepped forward, breaking away from the Saxon's line. The dark hair of the older man riding was shoulder length and being swept back by the gusts of wind. His face looked weathered and he had the early growth of a beard. Below his left eye was a deep indent that crossed his cheek. At the distance, Ivar could not tell if it was a scar or a fresh wound. This man, he thought, would be the recipient of all his rage and pain now.

A faint, misplaced sound broke him from his focus. Disoriented to its direction, his eyes scanned the thick line of soldiers. Gussr's horse suddenly jerked and sidestepped, rearing up onto its hind legs and Ivar could now see Aethelswith's profile. Her mouth was distorted in a cry; she was screaming. Jolting his head forward, he strained to understand her distant words. The wind settled for an instant and he heard it.

"It is not him! It is not Burgred!" she wailed.

A trap.

"Charge!" Ivar screamed above the heads of his warriors. Their own screams echoing his command.

They surged forward, swords and axes overhead, hollering, eyes wide with the need for slaughter.

"Hvitserk, get her!"

Hvitserk ran toward the chariot to better hear his words.

"Bring the Princess back. I will go..." Ivar motioned with his hand indicating for them to flank the front on opposite sides.

The rival forces of warriors and soldiers collided in a wave of screams and metal clatter. The pulverizing strikes of swords on metal clashed and splintered, producing hollers of triumph and erupting sprays of blood.

The white horse pulling the chariot drove forward into the sea of battling men. Ivar kept his focus on Gussr's large frame and watched him tug and pull the reigns attempting to maneuver and retreat. A soldier with chain mail armour over the green Saxon colours lurched toward them, slashing the front legs of Gussr's grey horse. Nose-diving, the large beast fell, launching Aethelswith and her Viking shadow forward onto the damp ground. Gussr rolled over Aethelswith's small body, attempting to shield her from the soldiers grabs. He cried out as a sword was driven into the back of his shoulder and slumped onto his side, clutching her to his chest. The boot of a second soldier repeatedly slammed down on his face, splitting the skin of his forehead wide as a third Saxon worked to pry Aethelswith from his weakening grip. His body went limp and Aethelswith was pulled forward but yanked her hand free from the soldier's hold, scrambling back over Gussr, she clutched the leathers of his chest and screamed. Staring down at him, she watched his eyes slowly close.

She was grabbed around her waist and pulled backward; a daze washed over her and her fighting, frantic arms fell slack. Unaware of Alfred nearby and deaf to his calls, she was loaded up in front of him, atop his waiting horse.

Rage heaved through Ivar as he watched Alfred clutch his arms around her and turn the black horse toward the Saxon's back line.

Ivar's eyes shot to the side as a sword drove straight for his throat. Lurching his chin up, he swung his ax backhanded, driving the pick deep into the temple of the attacking Saxon, cracking wide the eye socket as he yanked it free. He whipped the ax in his other hand through the air, smashing it deeply into the open mouth of a charging soldier. Scanning the fighting men, he searched without result, for the tall black horse.

Eyes sweeping the chaos, he found Hvitserk, not far from the chariot, pulling a sword from the abdomen of a grounded fighter.

"Hvitserk!" he hollered.

He looked up to Ivar hearing his name.

"Find her!" Ivar shouted. "She was on horseback with Alfred!"

Hvitserk scanned the chaos and raised his hand to point.

The King! There. He has lost her!" he shouted back to Ivar.

Finding the spot, Ivar watched Alfred pull his lead, fighting to steady his horse among the surrounding battle. Aethelswith was gone and Ivar could see the panic in the young King's face. His dark eyes were darting side to side searching the carnage for her just as Ivar had been. His mouth was moving but his shouts were lost in the noise of crashing metal and the cries of the attacking and wounded fighters.

Cold panic swelled through Ivar as he spotted her among the violence, running and staggering between swinging swords and screaming men. She was looking toward him, arm thrown in the air to catch his attention. Her hood had fallen back exposing her further to the surrounding bloodshed. Unable to hear her cries above the deafening sound, he could only make out her moving lips mouthing his name. She was screaming for him. Screaming Ivar.

Snarling, he gritted his teeth and snapped the reigns, roaring for his horse to run. His narrowed, burning eyes stayed fixed on her small vulnerable form.

"I am coming my sweet!" he blared through his face scarf.

Charging forward through the fighting men, he hesitated only, to lodge his ax deep into the collar of an approaching Saxon.

Slowing the chariot as they neared one another, she rounded the back, as Ivar swiveled his body and outstretched his arms. She leaped into the chariot, smashing into his chest. They clung to each other. Aethelswith pulled back and Ivar tore his face cover down, her wild watering eyes staring up at him, her breathing ragged and her cheeks flushed red.

"I want to come with you," she cried.

Ivar searched her face, his eyes darting back and forth between hers.

"I want to stay with you," she rushed, still out of breath.

"Forever?" he whispered before slamming his lips to hers.

Eyes closed and brows pinched in both desperation and relief. Their first kiss. Her first kiss. Filled with a lifetime of silent promises. He broke away, tilting back to look at her, his filled with tears and reverence thick in his beaming eyes.

She brought her hand up and cupped his cheek, running her thumb over his bottom lip. "Please, do not hurt my brothers."

Ivar stared at her before bending down and pressing his lips to hers again. Straightening, he nodded and looked away, searching the crowd for Hvitserk. Finding him he shouted orders for them to fall back.

Without breaking their embrace, he turned her, pulling her to stand in front of him. His left arm was tight around her rib cage, holding her small body and holding the front of his chariot, she wrapped her other arm over his.

Bending down, he nestled his face into her neck, pressing soft kisses up the side of her throat. She tipped her head back, allowing him access, lost in his touch and deaf to the surrounding noise. Brushing his cheek against the smooth skin of hers, he pulled back and grazed his mouth along her ear.

"Aethelswith, I love you," he breathed. "I love you." Closing his eyes, the look of pained relief crossed his face. "You are everything."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her temple to his jaw, savouring the fervour of his words, alleviation washing over her as warm tears slid passed her closed lids. She squeezed his arm hugging her waste. He would be hers. Finally.

Tilting her head up, she spoke into his ear. "I love you, Ivar. Forever."

Straightening, he held her tight and adjusted the grip of the leather ropes in his hand. Bracing herself, Aethelswith pressed back into his body, the top of her head resting below his chin. Standing together, looking ahead of the chariot, toward their uncertain future, Ivar snapped the reigns.


End file.
